Monday's Poetry: "Lines Written in Early Spring"

by Pa Rock

Citizen Journalist

It feels like Mother Nature is aware of the calendrical fact that “spring” officially sprang this past Friday.  The grass is greening and the trees are budding.  I noticed this morning that the lilac bushes are already sporting tiny leaves.     The bulbs are sending up their foliage, with some of the small jonquils blooming and the narcissus – my most dependable bulbs - are getting ready to bloom.  The wild onions – they are bulbs also – have sprung up all over the yard, and while they don’t bloom, the first few mowings will send the scent of onion wafting through the neighborhood.
 
I am down to the bottom of the barrel on bird feed, and when it runs out later this week my little feathered friends from this winter will be on their own.  We do that dance every spring.  I know from experience that they will be hanging about the feeders expectantly for a day or two, but they will soon resume foraging like normal, healthy birds – and build their nests and lay their eggs and continue the cycle of life.
 
This spring feels especially welcome after what seems like the fourteen months of emotional desolation that we have just endured.
 
Today’s poetry selection is “Lines Written in Early Spring” by 19^th century British romantic poet William Wordsworth.   In it he seems to extol the dependability of nature and lament the sad impact that man often has on the otherwise wonderful scheme of nature.
 
Open the windows and welcome spring!

 

Lines Written in Early Spring
by William Wordsworth
 
I heard a thousand blended notes
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to mind.
 
To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.
 
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And ‘tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
 
The birds around me hopped and played, 
Their thoughts I cannot measure –
But the least motion of which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
 
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.
 
If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature’s holy plan,
Have I not reason t lament
What man has made of man?