TodayBY BILLY COLLINS

If ever there were a spring day so perfect, so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze

that it made you want to throw open all the windows in the house

and unlatch the door to the canary's cage, indeed, rip the little door from its jamb,

a day when the cool brick paths and the garden bursting with peonies

seemed so etched in sunlight that you felt like taking

a hammer to the glass paperweight on the living room end table,

releasing the inhabitants from their snow-covered cottage

so they could walk out, holding hands and squinting

into this larger dome of blue and white, well, today is just that kind of day.

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BONUS: Found this, too. I think Edna needs to turn that frown upside down.

Spring BY EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

To what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough. You can no longer quiet me with the redness Of little leaves opening stickily. I know what I know. The sun is hot on my neck as I observe The spikes of the crocus. The smell of the earth is good. It is apparent that there is no death. But what does that signify? Not only under ground are the brains of men Eaten by maggots. Life in itself Is nothing, An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, April Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

Things

There are worse things than having behaved foolishly in public. There are worse things than these miniature betrayals, committed or endured or suspected; there are worse things than not being able to sleep for thinking about them. It is 5 a.m. All the worse things come stalking in and stand icily about the bed looking worse and worse and worse.

This is by Fleur Adcock. She wrote it in December 1973 - right in the middle of the Winter of Discontent. As she says in "Poem for the Day 2" (where I spotted it): "There were power cuts, a rail strike, shortages of every kind (a note in my diary on the 15th says that I managed to buy the last oil lamo in East Finchley). I had a cold, an elderly friend had just died, and all was bleak. The occasion for the poem was probably some minor cause for embarrassment that was keeping me awake, bet then all the more serious matters came crowding in. I thought other people would recognise the sentiments."

But then, you read something like this and look out of the window on a nice sunny day, and think about the walk you're going to have by the river or the lovely family you're about to see, and it seems a little silly to let those things come stalking in. I love this poem. You can read it in a funny way too. It makes me feel better.

A glorious poem by E. E. Cummings - great fun to read out loud. Originally published in Cumming's 1935 No Thanks collection, may i feel said he is one of the poet's most original and best loved works. The punctuation is like that on purpose. Watch out for the single capital letter that makes the whole thing. may i feel said he

may i feel said he (i'll squeal said she just once said he) it's fun said she

(may i touch said he how much said she a lot said he) why not said she

(let's go said he not too far said she what's too far said he where you are said she)

may i stay said he (which way said she like this said he if you kiss said she

may i move said he is it love said she) if you're willing said he (but you're killing said she

but it's life said he but your wife said she now said he) ow said she

(tiptop said he don't stop said she oh no said he) go slow said she

(cccome?said he ummm said she) you're divine!said he (you are Mine said she)

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The sea runs back against itself With scarcely time for breaking wave To cannonade a slatey shelf And thunder under in a cave.

Before the next can fully burst The headwind, blowing harder still, Smooths it to what it was at first - A slowly rolling water-hill.

Against the breeze the breakers haste, Against the tide their ridges run And all the sea's a dappled waste Criss-crossing underneath the sun.

Far down the beach the ripples drag Blown backward, rearing from the shore, And wailing gull and shrieking shag Alone can pierce the ocean roar.

Unheard, a mongrel hound gives tongue, Unheard are shouts of little boys; What chance has any inland lung Against this multi-water noise?

Here where the cliffs alone prevail I stand exultant, neutral, free, And from the cushion of the gale Behold a huge consoling sea.