Nothing is so beautiful as Spring -- When weeds in wheels, shoots long and lovely and lush Thrush's eggs look like little heavens, and thrush Though the echoing timber does so rinse and wring the ear, it strikes like lightening to hear him sing. The glassy pear tree leaves and blooms, they brush The descending blue, that blue is all in a rush With richness. The lambs have too their fling.
What is all this juice, this joy?
Hopkins' rich use of language, and in this case the end rhymes, always amaze me.
The photo above is "my" forsythia, the one outside my bedroom window whose buds I watched waiting for a couple of weeks. These are not particularly graceful or pretty flowers up close. But from across the lawn -- and they have burst into color in many lawns these last few days -- they are a gobs of gold brightening days, like this one, when the sky is very low and an unbroken covering of gray.
The mid-70s are a surprise! Part of me remains in the 50s -- age, I mean, not decade of 20th century. It's a joy ride, new experiences land in my lap and I've become a better quilter, poet, writer than I expected. It's a rich life for a person never rich financially. Hey, this is what the mid-70s are like!