Lines written in early Spring

It’s almost the vernal equinox here in the UK, and soon the clocks will be going forward an hour. My garden is bursting out into bud and flower; birdsong fills the air, and fills my heart as well.

In this one small corner of my garden, underneath the mossy ash tree roots, a climbing miniature rose is just visible, together with the massed muscari and leaves of the self-seeded wild violets. The photinia in the background is guarding the stash of sheep’s wool I’ve hung there to assist with nest production. Nearby are the bird feeders, with their pigeon patio underneath, which protects the ground from being trampled by pigeons.

My cold has now turned into a full-blown chest infection, but a few minutes spent in my garden gives me such joy.

This poem of Wordsworth’s, written in 1798, reflects his conflicting emotions, contrasting the pleasure he receives from being outside in nature with his dismay at the violence of war. Plus ça change …

Lines written in early Spring

I heard a thousand blended notes, 
While in a grove I sate reclined, 
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 
Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 

To her fair works did Nature link 
The human soul that through me ran; 
And much it grieved my heart to think 
What man has made of man. 

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, 
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; 
And ’tis my faith that every flower 
Enjoys the air it breathes. 

The birds around me hopped and played, 
Their thoughts I cannot measure:— 
But the least motion which they made 
It seemed a thrill of pleasure. 

The budding twigs spread out their fan, 
To catch the breezy air; 
And I must think, do all I can, 
That there was pleasure there. 

If this belief from heaven be sent, 
If such be Nature’s holy plan, 
Have I not reason to lament 
What man has made of man?

William Wordsworth