The beginning of T.S. Eliot’s poem, “The Waste Land,” opens with “April is the cruellest month…”
Truly, I couldn’t agree more with this assessment.
Here in Ontario, we’ve sampled just about the worst role of every season during this one month alone. April’s weather forecasts were not on their best behaviour, offering only a few days taste of the tantalizing weather yet to come.
In my neck of the woods, the temps dropped overnight and it actually snowed. Thankfully a light dusting was all we received and most has now dissipated.
In any case, most poems about spring are uplifting, giving us hope for rejuvenation and renewal in our own lives and our gardens. These written words are like doors opening to better times ahead… an optimistic tête-à-tête, or a literary sightseeing adventure, taking us from death towards the newness and rebirth of spring.
These portals are waiting to be cracked opened by the reader. It seems that doors and books have much in common! One may encounter something entirely more pleasant on the other side if the door handle is turned or the cover flipped.
With that in mind, I stumbled upon (a snippet of) a poem like that only this morning while perusing Pinterest.
Intrigued, I tracked down the rest, enjoying the lovely imagery offered, that in my mind sum up the best parts of spring!
“April Weather” by Lizette Woodworth Reese
From – A Handful of Lavender (1891)
Oh, hush, my heart, and take thine ease,
For here is April weather!
The daffodils beneath the trees
Are all a-row together.
The thrush is back with his old note;
The scarlet tulip is blowing;
And white – ay, white as my love’s throat –
The dogwood boughs are growing.
The lilac bush is sweet again;
Down every wind that passes,
Fly flakes from hedgerow and from lane;
The bees are in the grasses.
A Grief goes out, and Joy comes in,
And Care us but a feather;
And every lad his love can win,
For here is April weather.
Links with further reading and information about the author:
- “A Branch of May” – Lizette Woodward Reese
- Lizette Woodworth Reese and the Poetry of Spring