Spring, the sweet spring, is the year’s pleasant king

 

I’m certainly not going to argue with Thomas Nashe, although I know there must be plenty of you out there who love Autumn and Summer and maybe even Winter as much as Spring. But for me the first of the seasons can’t be beaten. I look for the first signs of it every year and I’m never disappointed. It’s such a joy to cut the first bunch of daffodils and have them on my table. And here they are again this year.

 

Charlotte and I have just been on a tour of the garden, enjoying the birds, finding one we couldn’t identify although we think it might be a warbler returned to us again, somewhat early this year because they usually come in April. What do you think?

The blackbirds and the thrushes and the various tits and finches have been feeding happily from our bird table all through the winter, but now they are singing their spring songs and beginning to build their nests and there’s so much for us to watch, I don’t think we shall be doing very much work, however pressing it might be.

 

 

That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!

Home-Thoughts, From Abroad by Robert Browning

The lawn is still a quagmire but there are four bubbly mounds of frogspawn in the pond and of course, the cat is throwing himself about with the excitement of it all!

 

 

And then collapsing with exhaustion on the sofa!

It is a season for new life, new ventures, new choices, although as Robert Frost reminds us, the road we don’t take might be the one we really needed. How can we tell, when the daffodils are dancing?

The Road Not Taken
BY ROBERT FROST

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

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