A Song Of Spring

The Spring comes slowly up this way,
Slowly, slowly,
Under a snood of hodden grey.

The black and white for her array,
Slowly, slowly,
The Spring comes slowly up this way.

Where is her green that was so gay?
Slowly, slowly,
The Spring comes slowly up this way.

Unto a world too sick for May,
Slowly, slowly,
The Spring comes slowly up this way.

Where are the lads that used to play?
Slowly, slowly,
The Spring comes slowly up this way.

She has no heart for holiday,
Slowly, slowly,
The Spring comes slowly up this way.

The trees are out in Heaven they say.
Slowly, slowly,
The Spring comes slowly up our way.

by Katharine Tynan

Comments (2)

A caring poem for those inflicted with a home's decay... but not all homeless, of their own accord-remain jobless. I have seen many standing on freeway on and off ramps, get money and shortly after, go to the liquor store for their begging reward. Purchase their booze, with little time to forlornly lose. If only many more would clean themselves up and go get a job... They'd forever no more, appear to be a useless slob. Lazyness only begets economic crazyness. This poem was a good poem of caring. God bless those who really do try. Michael Jeffrey Gale.
great poem, i wonder if you ever herd of RICH MULLINS.........