A Girl:

The tree has entered my hands,
The sap has ascended my arms,
The tree has grown in my breast --
Downward,
The branches grow out of me, like arms.

Tree you are,
Moss you are,
You are violets with wind above them.
A child -- so high -- you are,
And all this is folly to the world.

by Ezra Pound

Spring, Glorious Spring:
Instead of sitting at my desk in front of the computer screen, I wish I were taking a walk under the beauty of these trees, listening to the birds warble, the buzz of the bees, and smell the frangrances of buds and blossoms.

March is an in between month,
When wintry winds are high.
But milder days remind us all,
Spring's coming by and by.

Thanks, Patty... wish I was there!

Always Winter Never Christmas:

Make your choice, adventurous Stranger;

Strike the bell and bide the danger,

Or wonder, till it drives you mad,

What would have followed if you had.

-C.S. Lewis, The Magician's Nephew

Beryl's Blooms:

Now I know Spring is on it's way! While driving to work this morning, peeking out from under the groundcover, I saw a small but gloriously beautiful patch of daffodils. They are the golden banner that announces the end of winter. How many years have I delighted in their coming, in their fragrance, in their beauty?

Here, from William Wordsworth, is his 1804 poem entitled simply, "Daffodils." Dedicated to the Flower Charmer, my Aunt Beryl:

I wander'd lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd.

A host of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the Milky Way,

They stretch'd in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

The New England Mystic:

"Love is anterior to life,
posterior to death,
initial of creation,
and the exponent of breath."

-Emily Dickinson, 1830-1886