Mr. Right was fond of saying, at the time of change of seasons, that there was always a day when you could “tell.” A day when a hint of frost told you that Winter was here, or a day when a certain damp chilliness announced that Summer had fled and Autumn was on its mellow and fruitful way.
Today is “that” day, and I know Spring is here. Oh, not formally. The calendar says it doesn’t officially start for another nine days. But it’s here. The birds say it is. The lambs say it is. The flowers say it is.
I say it is. And my life, the last twelve months and more “on which I shall not look back with undiluted pleasure” (to borrow Queen Elizabeth’s memorable understatement), at last says it is.
Nothing is so beautiful as Spring
When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;
Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens, and thrush
Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring
The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing;
The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush
The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush
With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.
What is all this juice and all this joy?A strain of the earth’s sweet being in the beginning
In Eden garden. – Have, get, before it cloy,
Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning,
Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy,
Most, O maid’s child, thy choice and worthy the winning.
—Spring, Gerard Manley Hopkins
Happy Spring. Here’s to better days ahead: