Top 10 Best Spring Poems by Poet Nguyễn Bính

Spring arrives with a lively bustle in the capital

A lonely soul waits to greet the New Year

Which neighbor's house proudly displays chrysanthemums?

Has the old garden's yellow apricot blossom bloomed yet?

A line of poetry interrupted in the middle of the page

My eyes, clouded by wine, gaze at the flowing hair

The North is not a foreign land to me

Why does my heart still carry the weight of hometown love?

As evening falls, the old mother dries her white hair

Like clouds on the peaks of the Truong Son Mountains

Mother, please protect the apricot garden

So that its golden blossoms can guide my steps in spring.

Spring arrives with the east wind

And the blush of unmarried girls' cheeks.

By the neighbor's porch, a young woman

Looks up at the sky with clear, bright eyes.

Groups of children play and laugh around

As the rain stops, the sky clears, and the sun shines bright.

New leaves, fresh shoots—who polished them silver?

The wind blows in waves, and then it fades away...

Leisurely, the villagers rest from their work in the fields,

While the rice grows smooth and soft like velvet.

The garden is full of fallen grapefruit and orange blossoms,

Filling the air with fragrance as butterflies circle around.

On the smooth sand road, a couple walks by,

Red scarves and dark headscarves, heading to the temple festival.

A bamboo cane leads the old woman with white hair,

Her hands counting beads, chanting a prayer in silence.

She is like a maiden still in her springtime,

Her purity untouched by the dust of the world,

Spring arrives, with apricot and plum blossoms in full bloom.

The maiden of spring waves her silk on the Vân River.

Her heart is light, and her cheeks glow with the pink of spring.

The spring maiden dreams of love and marriage,

At the age of eighteen, she walks with her hair flowing free.

On spring nights, does she sleep with any sorrow?

Where are you, my love, while I stay here at home?

The peach tree from last year is blooming again.

The horizon holds a cup of wine, wetting your lips,

Raindrops blur my letters, like my fading thoughts of you.

Lost in memories, the faint scent of incense lingers in the smoke,

And my heart tightens at the sight of the ivory bracelet you once wore.

News of you has yet to arrive, but spring has come.

Tonight, my dreams, too, are but fleeting visions...

Spring has returned, bringing with it memories and longing,

As the young maiden waits by the riverbank.

She recalls the spring three years ago,

When vows were exchanged on this very shore.

But the lover, that spring,

Departed, never to return to the river’s embrace.

How many springs have passed, flowing endlessly,

How many times has she waited, weary and longing?

This spring marks the third,

The spark of love now fading to a cold ember.

Could she continue to wait forever?

She must give up her promises and dreams of love.

Leaving her boat, the river, and her past behind,

The ferry maiden now sails away to become a bride.

Since then, her absence has been felt,

Leaving only sorrow for those crossing the river...

Spring is a season of vibrant green,

The sky above, and leaves on the branches.

The rice fields in my land and yours,

And the rice growing in his fields as well.

Grass grows on graves, waiting for the Day of Remembrance,

As I wait for my lover to share our love.

From behind the bamboo hedges, I see clearly,

The first sight is the green belt around his waist.

As the spring evening falls, fine mist dances in the air.

The rain gently touches, not soaking the festival-goers.

Praise for those who dye the Tam Giang fabric so beautifully,

And those who weave the strings to play spring’s tune.

Praise for those in the graceful four-part dresses,

Soft purple pants, with silk scarves flowing gently.

Praise for the straight-haired maiden,

Her breath filled with the scent of betel nut and cinnamon.

Praise for the silk-clad women with pleated pants,

The festival continues from dawn till dusk, full of joy.

Praise for the shy, sweet girls from the village,

With promises unspoken and vows still intact.

Those who met the fairies, like Từ Thức,

Or the girl in phoenix shoes, like Cinderella.

The village is alive with laughter, boys and girls together,

Wishing the night would last, to make the spring days longer.

The village roads are lined with white pomelo blossoms,

And pale purple privet flowers fall like rain.

The village is quiet, wrapped in the soft evening mist,

As if the smoke of fireworks from the past still lingers in the air.

The young grass on the hillside turns golden,

As the rice fields sway in the breeze, whispering in unison.

The spring festival stirs the flags in the wind,

While distant drums and songs echo through the empty streets.

The night sparkles with lanterns, like the stars above,

As the drumbeat rises, marking the start of the evening's celebration.

Beautiful faces and fluttering fans,

A maiden steps out, bringing love and charm to the gathering.

In the center of the temple courtyard,

Countless scenes and emotions unfold before the crowd.

From a prison cell to a garden in bloom,

From private chambers to a battlefield of life.

The Ngưng Bích tower, the palace of King Trang,

The dense banyan tree, the winding road—everything is there.

The fifteen years of Kiều’s trials,

Unfolded in a single afternoon.

One night can stretch into a lifetime,

Three soldiers in armor can be compared to ten battalions.

The fan becomes a wall, a fortress of protection,

One departure, countless miles, a heartfelt farewell.

The brush of a sleeve, a fallen jewel,

As the horseman rides, head bowed, lost in a dream.

Virtuous women and noble heroes abound,

The story weaves in surprising twists and dramatic moments.

The audience laughs and weeps,

Filled with love, hatred, joy, and sorrow.

Life’s lessons are crystal clear,

Reflected like images in a mirror.

Anger at Lý Thông, the greedy merchant,

Who betrays friends for wealth and status.

Rage at the mad king Trang,

Who slays scholars and forces painful marriages.

Disgust for Lư Kỷ, who holds power,

More interested in harm than serving the people.

Loathing for the old woman Tú,

Who trades in purity for profit.

Contempt for Sở Khanh, the deceiver,

Who escapes punishment, his lies unnoticed.

Scorn for Hầu, the treacherous father-in-law,

Who breaks his promises and lies for gain.

Sympathy for Thị Kính, wronged and abandoned,

Her heart unrestful, even in the temple.

Compassion for Kiều, with her grace and suffering,

Who endures years of hardship to save her father.

Praise for Hỷ Đồng, who risked his life for honor,

Braving danger to save his teacher’s life.

Praise for Châu Long, who remained loyal,

Her love unchanged, even through distance and separation.

Rejoicing in the reunion of loved ones,

Fortune returns, bringing joy to the family.

Celebrating the victory of the hero,

As the eighteen enemy nations retreat in defeat.

The square is packed with festival-goers,

As the night deepens, the bonds of love grow stronger.

Spring has arrived, as the season unfolds,

Every door opens to welcome joy and cheer.

Young girls compare the colors of their dresses,

Rosy cheeks blooming, laughing brightly.

Like fresh flowers, their petals slowly bloom,

Girls enter womanhood with the springtime.

The fragrance of love fills the air,

The familiar rhythm of horse hooves echoes with affection.

Young scholars, lazy to comb their hair,

Dreaming alone of future glory.

They dream of studying in the capital, passing exams,

And the princess placing a jade hairpin in their hair.

Old men with silver hair,

Sipping peach wine, writing poems.

Women with white hair, gentle like Buddhas,

Preparing for the pilgrimage to the temple.

The sound of firecrackers fills the air, smoke swirling in the sky,

Homes reunite under the blooming flowers,

My heart is like the fairy flowers,

A poem etched in time, never to fade.

You are the girl by the loom,

Weaving silk with your elderly mother.

Your heart as pure as the white silk thread,

Your mother hasn’t yet gone to the distant village market.

That day, the spring rain danced in the air,

The xoan flowers fell in layers, thick and thin.

The boat rowing from the village passed by,

Your mother said: The Đoài village will sing tonight.

My heart wove a web of love.

You paused, the shuttle in your hands,

It seemed your cheeks flushed with warmth,

Perhaps you were thinking of me.

The streetlamps lit up in the neighborhood,

You held out your hand before the porch.

The rain soaked your hand with cold drops,

But I knew you'd come to see me.

You asked permission to leave in haste,

Your mother said: Come back and tell me everything.

The rain was light, so your dress stayed dry,

Đoài village was just across the embankment.

At Đoài, the night-long singing began,

You were lost in searching for me, forgetting to watch the performance.

Perhaps tonight the thread will grow cold,

And the bone needle will miss the touch of your fingers.

While I waited, you never came,

Yet the other night, you sang in the village.

Years passed, and promises were made,

Yet spring’s joy turned to sorrow.

Alone, I stumbled on my way home,

The embankment, though long, seemed so small!

The thin cloak barely covered my head,

And the heavy rain chilled me in the quiet night.

I was angry with you until the dawn,

The next morning, my mother asked what the song was about.

- “They sang…” I replied, and then I saw,

Tears streamed down, and I turned away.

That day, the spring rain no longer danced,

The xoan flowers were crushed beneath my feet.

The boat from Đặng village passed again,

Mother said: Spring is almost gone.

My love! Spring is fading away!

When will I ever see you again?

When will Đặng village pass by,

So that mother will say: They’re singing tonight?

The warm afternoon carries the scent of the breeze,

As the misty rain falls softly, a gentle scatter.

The orange and tangerine trees stretch their branches,

As their leaves cradle the flowers, welcoming the rain.

Who truly sees the spring rain?

The spider’s web is spun with delicate white threads.

Butterflies flutter, their wings dry despite the fall,

As people journey to the festival, their hair lifted by the wind.

The path is cool underfoot, the rice fields calm in the breeze,

While wild grass blooms, a rich green along the edge.

The hill stands tall, a buffalo grazing near the base,

The animal's head lifted, ears perked at the sound of the village drum.

The mountain rises sharply, its fresh stone faces gleaming,

The train speeds south, racing along its tracks.

A flock of storks takes off, soaring over the wet fields,

Forming a white line against the pale blue sky.

By the riverbank, mulberry trees stand dark against the rain,

While distant village bells ring faintly in the air.

The spring afternoon lingers, unwilling to end,

The mist swirls, carrying the gentle scent of rain.