Ken’s Pennings – Spring

I’m giddy with excitement with the signs of spring. Each day I rove our gardens looking for the sprouts of tulips and daffodils. Though it’s still quite cold, I bundle up and sit on my deck in the sun sipping hot tea, wondering which part of the yard I’ll start cleaning up first. SPRING inspires the poet to write beautiful poems like the ones I share with you here:

Every spring is the only spring, a perpetual astonishment. — Ellis Peters

Lord of the springtime, Father of flower, field and fruit, smile on us in these earnest days when the work is heavy and the toil wearisome; lift up our hearts, O God, to the things worthwhile–sunshine and night, the dripping rain, the song of the birds, books and music, and the voices of our friends. Lift up our hearts to these this night and grant us Thy peace. Amen. — W.E.B. DuBois

The bud itself is the miracle. To watch the upthrust of a daffodil, to see it take form as a flower-to-be, to see the bud grow and take on the warmth of color–there is the very synthesis of spring. — Unattributed

 

And the Spring arose on the garden fair;

Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere;

And each flower and herb on Earth’s dark breast

Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest. — Percy Bysshe Shelley

 

If Spring came but once in a century, instead of once a year, or burst forth with the sound of an earthquake, and not in silence, what wonder and expectation there would be in all hearts to behold the miraculous change! But now the silent succession suggests nothing but necessity. To most people only the cessation of the miracle would be miraculous and the perpetual exercise of God’s power seems less wonderful than its withdrawal would be. — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

 

Praise with elation

Praise every morning

Spring’s re-creation

Of the First Day! — Eleanor Farjeon

The air and the earth interpenetrated in the warm gusts of spring;

the soil was full of sunlight, and the sunlight full of red dust.

The air one breathed was saturated with earthy smells,

and the grass under foot had a reflection of blue sky in it. — Willa Cather

 

In those vernal seasons of the year, when the air is calm and pleasant,

it were an injury and sullenness against Nature not to go out and see

her riches, and partake in her rejoicing with heaven and earth. — John Milton

 

It was a perfect spring afternoon, and the air was filled with vague,

roving scents, as if the earth exhaled the sweetness of hidden flowers. — Ellen Glasgow

 

Morning

The year’s at the spring

And day’s at the morn;

Morning’s at seven;

The hillside’s dew-pearled;

The lark’s on the wing;

The snail’s on the thorn:

God’s in his heaven–

All’s right with the world. –- Robert Browning

 

Today, look at the blue sky, hear the grass growing beneath your feet,

inhale the scent of spring, let the fruits of the earth linger on your tongue,

reach out and embrace those you love. Ask Spirit to awaken your

awareness to the sacredness of your sensory perceptions. — Sarah Ban Breathnach

 

When the snowdrops push their green spears through the earth

I know that spring has arrived, and each year I think what a

miracle it is. No matter how long the winter, how hard the frost

or how deep the snow, Nature triumphs. No season is awaited

so eagerly or welcomed so warmly as spring. . . . Each year I

am astonished by the wealth of flowers the season gives us:

the subtlety of the wild primroses and violets, the rich

palette of crocus in the parks, tall soldier tulips

and proud trumpeting daffodils and narcissi. — Sheila Pickles

 

Parting from the Winter Stove

On the fifth day after the rise of Spring,

Everywhere the season’s gracious attitudes!

The white sun gradually lengthening its course,

The blue-grey clouds hanging as thought they would fall;

The last icicle breaking into splinters of jade:

The new stems marshalling red sprouts.

The things I meet are all full of gladness;

It is not only I who love the spring.

To welcome the flowers I stand in the back garden;

To enjoy the sunlight I sit under the front eaves.

Yet still in my heart there lingers one regret;

Soon I shall part with the flame of my red stove! — unattributed Chinese poem, ad 822

 

The first day of spring is one thing, and the first spring day is another.

The difference between them is sometimes as great as a month. — Henry van Dyke