Spring is Here

We have the most gorgeous forsythia bushes. We always get compliments from everyone in the Spring on how beautiful they are. In our house we just spent the last week fighting the flu, and when we emerged from the haze of it all, I was surprised with a beautiful burst of yellow which surprised me in my back yard. I liken it to an old friend you haven't seen in a while. You don't realize how much you were missing them until they are standing there in front of you-just as wonderful as the last time you saw them.
Its been a busy week. Between work and being under the weather somehow its now Sunday! Where did the days go? To celebrate feeling better, I took the girls to our local 7-Eleven and treated them each to a slurpee. We then high-tailed it to the library, one of our very favorite places to hang out.
Among the treasures I have the temporary honor of calling my own is a little book aptly titled The Four Seasons Poems,Everymans's Library Pocket Poets. The introduction tells us "the poems in this volume engage vividly with the seasons and, through them, with the ways in which we understand and engage the world outside ourselves." What a beautiful description!
I can honestly say I have spent way too too much time with myself this past week being sick-I am definitely ready to spend some more time outside of myself. I can' think of a better way to do it than with a good book. And in honor of Spring, I would like to share a poem with you. Its a little melancholy, but beautifully written by one of my favorite poets:


LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING
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 the 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 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 to lament
What man has made of man?