Spring Day poem – Amy Lowell poems | Poems and Poetry

Bath

The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is

a smell of tulips and narcissus

in the air.

The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and

bores through the water

in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish-white. It

cleaves the water

into flaws like a jewel, and cracks it to bright light.

Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of

the water and dance, dance,

and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a stir

of my finger

sets them whirring, reeling. I move a foot, and the planes

of light

in the water jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the green-white

water,

the sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me. The day is

almost

too bright to bear, the green water covers me from the too bright

day.

I will lie here awhile and play with the water and the sun spots.

The sky is blue and high. A crow flaps

by the window, and there is

a whiff of tulips and narcissus in the air.

Breakfast Table

In the fresh-washed sunlight, the breakfast table

is decked and white.

It offers itself in flat surrender, tendering tastes, and smells,

and colours, and metals, and grains, and the white cloth falls over

its side,

draped and wide. Wheels of white glitter in the silver

coffee-pot,

hot and spinning like catherine-wheels, they whirl, and twirl —

and my eyes

begin to smart, the little white, dazzling wheels prick them like

darts.

Placid and peaceful, the rolls of bread spread themselves in the

sun to bask.

A stack of butter-pats, pyramidal, shout orange through the white,

scream,

flutter, call: “Yellow! Yellow! Yellow!” Coffee

steam rises in a stream,

clouds the silver tea-service with mist, and twists up into the

sunlight,

revolved, involuted, suspiring higher and higher, fluting in a thin

spiral

up the high blue sky. A crow flies by and croaks at the

coffee steam.

The day is new and fair with good smells in the air.

Walk

Over the street the white clouds meet, and sheer

away without touching.

On the sidewalks, boys are playing marbles. Glass

marbles,

with amber and blue hearts, roll together and part with a sweet

clashing noise. The boys strike them with black and red

striped agates.

The glass marbles spit crimson when they are hit, and slip into

the gutters

under rushing brown water. I smell tulips and narcissus

in the air,

but there are no flowers anywhere, only white dust whipping up the

street,

and a girl with a gay Spring hat and blowing skirts. The

dust and the wind

flirt at her ankles and her neat, high-heeled patent leather shoes. Tap,

tap,

the little heels pat the pavement, and the wind rustles among the

flowers

on her hat.

A water-cart crawls slowly on the other side of

the way. It is green and gay

with new paint, and rumbles contentedly, sprinkling clear water

over

the white dust. Clear zigzagging water, which smells

of tulips and narcissus.

The thickening branches make a pink `grisaille’

against the blue sky.

Whoop! The clouds go dashing at each

other and sheer away just in time.

Whoop! And a man’s hat careers down the street in front

of the white dust,

leaps into the branches of a tree, veers away and trundles ahead

of the wind,

jarring the sunlight into spokes of rose-colour and green.

A motor-car cuts a swathe through the bright air,

sharp-beaked, irresistible,

shouting to the wind to make way. A glare of dust and

sunshine

tosses together behind it, and settles down. The sky

is quiet and high,

and the morning is fair with fresh-washed air.

Midday and Afternoon

Swirl of crowded streets. Shock and

recoil of traffic. The stock-still

brick facade of an old church, against which the waves of people

lurch and withdraw. Flare of sunshine down side-streets. Eddies

of light

in the windows of chemists’ shops, with their blue, gold, purple

jars,

darting colours far into the crowd. Loud bangs and tremors,

murmurings out of high windows, whirring of machine belts,

blurring of horses and motors. A quick spin and shudder

of brakes

on an electric car, and the jar of a church-bell knocking against

the metal blue of the sky. I am a piece of the town,

a bit of blown dust,

thrust along with the crowd. Proud to feel the pavement

under me,

reeling with feet. Feet tripping, skipping, lagging,

dragging,

plodding doggedly, or springing up and advancing on firm elastic

insteps.

A boy is selling papers, I smell them clean and new from the press.

They are fresh like the air, and pungent as tulips and narcissus.

The blue sky pales to lemon, and great tongues

of gold blind the shop-windows,

putting out their contents in a flood of flame.

Night and Sleep

The day takes her ease in slippered yellow. Electric

signs gleam out

along the shop fronts, following each other. They grow,

and grow,

and blow into patterns of fire-flowers as the sky fades. Trades

scream

in spots of light at the unruffled night. Twinkle, jab,

snap, that means

a new play; and over the way: plop, drop, quiver, is

the sidelong

sliver of a watchmaker’s sign with its length on another street.

A gigantic mug of beer effervesces to the atmosphere over a tall

building,

but the sky is high and has her own stars, why should she heed ours?

I leave the city with speed. Wheels

whirl to take me back to my trees

and my quietness. The breeze which blows with me is fresh-washed

and clean,

it has come but recently from the high sky. There are

no flowers

in bloom yet, but the earth of my garden smells of tulips and narcissus.

My room is tranquil and friendly. Out

of the window I can see

the distant city, a band of twinkling gems, little flower-heads

with no stems.

I cannot see the beer-glass, nor the letters of the restaurants

and shops

I passed, now the signs blur and all together make the city,

glowing on a night of fine weather, like a garden stirring and blowing

for the Spring.

The night is fresh-washed and fair and there is

a whiff of flowers in the air.

Wrap me close, sheets of lavender. Pour

your blue and purple dreams

into my ears. The breeze whispers at the shutters and

mutters

queer tales of old days, and cobbled streets, and youths leaping

their horses

down marble stairways. Pale blue lavender, you are the

colour of the sky

when it is fresh-washed and fair . . . I smell the stars . . . they

are like

tulips and narcissus . . . I smell them in the air.

***

More poems by Amy Lowell