Poets | Bookstore | Poem of the Day | Top 40 | Search | Comments | Privacy
July 22nd, 2014 - we have 234 poets, 8,025 poems and 115,441 comments.
Amy Lowell - Spring Day

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.

Share |

Added: Feb 1 2004 | Viewed: 404 times | Comments and analysis of Spring Day by Amy Lowell Comments (3)

Spring Day - Comments and Information

Poet: Amy Lowell
Poem: 4. Spring Day
Volume: Men, Women and Ghosts
- Clocks Tick a Century

Comment 3 of 3, added on April 12th, 2014 at 6:52 PM.
Blue awesome work!

Blue awesome work! I knew it was Lowell as soon as I saw the red blindiug juxtaposed with the green bridge. What a great city for bridges! I absolutely love the industrial feeling of this shot! Great leash removal job too! I think I spent 4 hours on that very same thing last night before I posted. haha.

Lorena from Kyrgyz Republic (Kyrgyzstan)
Comment 2 of 3, added on October 19th, 2011 at 8:25 PM.
bVqIqWnC

This information is off the hzoiol!

Janisa from Venezuela
Comment 1 of 3, added on March 4th, 2009 at 12:45 PM.

Gloriously wordsmithed creation. Love it!

Michael Blake from Ireland

Are you looking for more information on this poem? Perhaps you are trying to analyze it? The poem, Spring Day, has received 3 comments. Click here to read them, and perhaps post a comment of your own.

Poem Info

Lowell Info
Copyright © 2000-2012 Gunnar Bengtsson. All Rights Reserved. Links | Bookstore