Nearly Sprung. . .

   A friend I was chatting with here last night made reference to it being Spring ~ she was referring of course to the beginning of Spring being 1 March which is the Climatological date used by Meteologists, rather than the more traditional Astronomical date, but it did set me thinking and wondering how much longer there was to go.

 

With the dawn chorus getting ever more loud and keener each morning, and with a BIG sun ~ bright in a blue sky this morning in particular, I was motivated to check it out.

 

We have just 2 weeks to go; this year the equinox will be at 0548 GMT! At this time the sun will be crossing directly over, and in the same plane as, the Equator. In the Northern Hemisphere it is our “Vernal” Equinox  (the South of course it being the “Autumnal”).

 

Vernal comes from the Latin word for bloom and this is the Equinox that marks the end of our winter and the beginning of Spring.

 

Why Post? Well because with the bird song this morning, and with a BIG sun (in a still chilly morning air) in a bright blue sky, and with just 2 weeks left to go, it made me think of a poem called Children by  a great American (we wont hold that against him) poet. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

 

Nothing as big or as complex as his brilliant ‘Hiawatha’, but rather just a simple little poem about new life. . . about Children.

 

Spring is a time for new life and already the Daffodils, Snowdrops and Crocuses are in bloom; all that remains is for the birds to start their twig, & other material collecting for nest-building and for my favourite ~ the first Bluebells ~ to come to bloom. For me, then, Sping has most definitely arrived.

 

Here’s the poem:                         

 

CHILDREN

 

Come to me, O ye children!

For I hear you at your play,

And the questions that perplexed me

Have vanished quite away.

 

Ye open the eastern windows,

That look towards the sun,

Where thoughts are singing swallows

And the brooks of morning run.

 

In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,

In your thoughts the brooklet's flow,

But in mine is the wind of Autumn

And the first fall of the snow.

 

Ah! what would the world be to us

If the children were no more?

We should dread the desert behind us

Worse than the dark before.

 

What the leaves are to the forest,

With light and air for food,

Ere their sweet and tender juices

Have been hardened into wood, --

 

That to the world are children;

Through them it feels the glow

Of a brighter and sunnier climate

Than reaches the trunks below.

 

Come to me, O ye children!

And whisper in my ear

What the birds and the winds are singing

In your sunny atmosphere.

 

For what are all our contrivings,

And the wisdom of our books,

When compared with your caresses,

And the gladness of your looks?

 

Ye are better than all the ballads

That ever were sung or said;

For ye are living poems,

And all the rest are dead.

 

 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

 

Nature needs no selling. . .

 

And before anyone else says it. . . no, my Longfellow is just fine and does not need straightening out  J