Poems for Spring

April, without your clear assistance,

outside the winter of fallen splendors;

but even if April does not open her flowers to you,

you will always exalt spring.

You are the true spring;

rose of the inner roads,

breeze from the secret corridors,

fire of the hidden hillside.

What peace, when in the mysterious afternoon,

embraced the two, be your laugh

the supplier from our single source!

My heart will pick up your rose

your breeze will blow over my eyes,

your light will fall asleep on my forehead …

Juan Ramon Jimenez

The spring kissing

gently the grove,

and the new green sprouted

like a green smoke.

The clouds were passing

over the youth field …

I saw in the leaves trembling

the cool April rains.

Under that flowering almond tree,

all loaded with flower – I remembered -,

I have cursed

my youth without love.

Today, in the middle of life,

I have stopped to meditate …

Youth never lived,

who would dream of you again!

Antonio Machado

Doña Primavera

you saw that it is beautiful,

of white,

such as a flowering lemon tree.

Wear for sandals

a wide leaves

and by caravans

some red fuchsias.

Go out to find her

down those roads!

She goes crazy with suns

and crazy with trills!

Doña Primavera,

of fruitful breath,

laughs at all

the sorrows of the world …

He does not believe whoever speaks to him

of mean lives.

How will you understand them

among the jasmine?

How will you understand them

next to the sources

of golden mirrors

and burning songs?

From the sick land

in the deep crevices,

light rose bushes

of red pirouettes.

She puts on her lace,

light up your veggies,

on the sad stone

of the graves …

Doña Primavera

of glorious hands,

do that for life

let’s spill roses:

Roses of joy,

forgiveness roses,

sweetheart roses

and self-denial.

Gabriela Mistral

The dark swallows will return

their nests to hang on your balcony,

and again with the wing to its crystals,

playing they will call;

but those that the flight held back

your beauty and my happiness when contemplating;

those who learned our names,

those … will not return!

The bushy honeysuckle will return

from your garden the walls to climb,

and again in the afternoon, even more beautiful,

its flowers will open;

but those curds of dew,

whose drops we watched tremble

and fall, like tears of the day …

those … will not return!

They will return from the love in your ears

the fiery words to sound;

your heart, from its deep sleep

maybe it will wake up;

but mute and absorbed and on his knees

as God is worshiped before his altar,

as I have loved you … be delusional,

That way they won’t love you!

Gustavo Adolfo Becquer

(Tonadilla pastoil)

Already cheers the countryside

the cool spring;

the forest and the meadow

they renew their greenness.

With whistle from the branches

neighboring trees

accompany the trills

of the sweet nightingale.

This is the time, Silvio,

the time of love.

Hear what whispers

the meek stream;

to sleep and rest

invite his rumor.

How pleasant is the shore!

How clear the current!

When did the atmosphere breathe

most delicious smell?

This is the time, Silvio,

the time of love.

More noise and earlier

the dawn is already shining;

the sun the fields dora

with another glow.

Bare the mountains

from the hard and sad ice,

and get dressed up in the sky

of more various color.

This is the time, Silvio,

the time of love.

The birds fall in love

the fish, the cattle,

and they still love each other linked

the tree and the flower.

All nature,

taking on new life,

applaud the coming

May benefactor.

This is the time, Silvio,

the time of love.

Thomas of Iriarte

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