A sonnet to spring
Very old are the woods;
And the buds that break
Out of the brier’s boughs
When March winds wake,
So old with their beauty are—
Oh, no man knows
Through what wild centuries
Roves back the rose.
Walter de la Mare
SPRING is a timeless joy, whether you are girl or boy. It is a pleasure democratically available to all, dweller of city flat, country hall. Spring! Gaudy yellow cowslips trumpet the news. Spring! A word enough to make the heart sing. Spring! When trees unfurl their leaves, butterflies their wings. Spring! When the birds again sing.
Some of my favoured things of spring are commonplace, which is part of their delight —to know that, since the Stone Agers penetrated these isles’:
