Mulling Childhood Scenes Poem by Nero CaroZiv

As that fierce lion through the green woods in rash galloping it comes,
With roar and wrath trodding heavily which startle the hushed savannah solitudes,
Yet, soon as he sees the lioness bride, that like a white dame
To virtue and to flirting is readied, beguiling in her smooth fur and challenging youth, quiets his rude
And savage heart, and at her feet he falls tame
As a pet lamb, so does wanton March, which though his first mood

Upon the earth is boisterous and wild, savagely feeling that shame
Would follow his falling steps, if Spring's young brood
Of buds and blossoms stamped withered where he trod,
Calming his fierce ire and its mood turns less dire; and now the violets
Breathe their new lives; Spring embracing the cow-house; the tawny primrose sits
Like squatted old man on the route side clod;

Passover, early bees are all day since dawn on the wind with furry coats and gauzy wing,
And working laboriously, yet in pleasure they collect, hum and sing.


Cold head month of the year, slagging year, January comes in winter's chariot car,
Thick hung with swinging icicles its heavy wheels
Cumbered with clogging snow, which cracks and peels
With its least motion or concussive jar
Against hard hid ruts, or hewn trees buried far
In the heaped whiteness which awhile conceals

The green and pastoral earth; approaching Spring feels,
That well-fed on bare tree top a singing bird, a wassailer
With all its feasts and fires, it still feels cold and shivers,
And the red runnel of his indolent blood
Creeps slow and curdled as a northern rouge flood.
And lakes and winter frigid rills, impetuous rivers

And headlong steep rapids frozen, are in summoned winter silence bound,
Like trammeled tigers lashed to the unyielding rigid ground

Not farther than a fledgling weak that tests its first flight,
In a low dell, standout old huge trees of an antique grove;
Colossus trunks they stood, making the forest dusky by day, but when it is night,
None may tread safely there, kindled by curiosity of nature and love.
In lonelier childhood days, it was my mood to rove
At all hours there; contemplate, discuss with lofty trees and to hear what mirth I might

Of the passionate dark Lark, the ivory white brooding Dove,
And the strong Thrush all breathers of delight of love
When night drawn curtains darkened the deep vale,
And the rich melodious music of the day is ended,
Out gushed a sudden song of the saddest wail so captivating, so not dull
It breaking the silence with sweetness mended

It was the voice of the dawn waked lonesome Nightingale, the forest bell
Who would come with me to the fields in seclusion and hear her melancholious yet melodious tale.


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