Good Morrow, Sweet Spring for Reading and Picnics Sing

Do you love picnics? Shakespeare? Read on for a Shakespearean style sonnet praising the sweet coming of spring picnics!

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shakespeare and a picnic

Hark! Lend thine ears, good gentles, to a tale
Of verdant fields where gentle breezes sail.
For winter’s grip hath loosed its icy hold,
And springtime’s touch doth paint the earth with gold.
Upon a tapestry of emerald grass,
A feast doth waits, a bounty meant to surpass
The heartiest trencherman’s wildest dreams, I trow.
But wait, there’s more! A pleasure yet to know!

For with these victuals, fit for gods above,
Comes solace for the mind, a solace for the soul, you see, my love.
A tome, a friend, with pages crisp and fair,
Invites us forth on journeys, free of care.

So draw nigh, kind sirs and gentle dames,
As we explore this pleasure, whispered by the names
Of picnics spread and stories yet untold,
In springtime’s gentle light, a tale of joy unfolds.

‘Tis, Sweet Spring Picnics

Thy quill is sharp, indeed! The lines flow fair,
A tapestry of words, a scene most rare.

Beneath a leafy canopy, it’s true,
Where sunbeams dance in patterns ever new,
A checkered cloth, a feast for eyes to see,
Doth tempt the palate with its gaiety.

A gentle zephyr whispers secrets low,
As lush tendrils sway in graceful tow.
A feathered choir, with songs both sweet and slow,
Doth fill the air, a melody aglow.

Spring picnic set up with an open book
IMAVA VIA BOOKSTR / KRISTI ESKEW

But hark! Upon this cloth, a treasure lies,
Not meats and breads to fill one’s belly’s hold,
But fables of wonder, bound in wise disguise,
Adventures spun with magic, brave and bold.

A portal awaits, bathed in the sun’s embrace,
Where heroes rise, and villains meet their fate.
The sandwich rests untouched, a sweet disgrace,
For in this book, a world doth captivate.

The taste of spring, the scent of blossoms bright,
The merry laughter that with friends doth rise,
All interweave with stories, taking flight,
A perfect blend beneath the cerulean skies.

So let us feast, on victuals and on lore,
Beneath the boughs where verdant leaves entwine.
In springtime’s heart, a solace to explore,
With tales untold, and musings that combine.

Thus, with a sigh, we close the well-worn tome,
The world it held, a fleeting, sweet perfume.
The sun dips low, the shadows stretch and grow,
And laughter calls, a summons we must know.
The feast awaits, a symphony of taste,
With friends and kin, the joy of moments chased.
But though the book is shut, its magic stays,
A whispered echo in the fading rays.

For springtime’s kiss and stories intertwined,
A lasting peace within the heart we find.


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FEATURED IMAGE VIA BOOKSTR / KRISTI ESKEW