The buttercups that gild the hills
What wealth provide us;
Earth's brimming tills of daffodils
This is April's legacy
Which all inherit:
The tender gold of flower and tree.
Rejoice and share it!
To a Butterfly
O little astronaut of winged dust,
The summer air is yours to try and trust,
An ocean, limitless, of sunny hours
With isles of rest which are the nodding flowers.
Your languid wings, how excellent their span,
Infallible, ineffable, their plan,
As casually you leave the flower there
And lightly soar the iridescent air.
Spring
As in a small reflecting-glass
The sun's rays fiercely focus,
So Spring is captured in the grass
By one important crocus.
Renewal
Now in the fields the clover-bloom exhales
The hoarded summers on her perfumed breath.
The new grass grows with zest that never fails
Spring's yearly resurrection after death.
Unquestioning, the young fern breaks the mold,
The jonquil's cup is filled with morning wine,
And life's bright flame, unquenched by winter's cold,
Is bright within the candle of the pine.
Poet Ernestine Cobern Beyer, my beautiful mother
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