It seems as if

This must be the end of it-

So much spring snow.

Issa (1762-1826)

Last edited by yoko

“Sitting quietly, doing nothing, Spring comes, and the grass grows, by itself.”

Basho





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Last edited by yoko

 

 

 

William Wordsworth, ‘Lines Written in Early Spring‘.

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…

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Last edited by Vicky2

A Light Exists In Spring - Poem by Emily Dickinson

 
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A light exists in spring
Not present on the year
At any other period.
When March is scarcely here

A color stands abroad
On solitary hills
That science cannot overtake,
But human naturefeels.

It waits upon the lawn;
It shows the furthest tree
Upon the furthest slope we know;
It almost speaks to me.

Then, as horizons step,
Or noons report away,
Without the formula of sound,
It passes, and we stay:

A quality of loss
Affecting our content,
As trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a sacrament.

Last edited by Sue 1

“Sitting quietly, doing nothing, Spring comes, and the grass grows, by itself.”

Basho

Last edited by yoko

“Ah, it is spring,
Great spring it is now,
Great, great spring -
Ah, Great -”
― Matsuo Bashō

Last edited by yoko

“There was a mild wind in the air, and one or two petals of cherry blossom were falling gently to the ground. It was the kind of day you often have in late March—so perfect that you want it to last for ever.”


― Noboyuki Yuasa

Last edited by yoko

"And so the spring buds burst, and so I gaze,
And so the blossoms fall, and so my days ...”


― Onitsura

Last edited by yoko

“It's spring fever. That is what the name of it is. And when you've got it, you want—oh, you don't quite know what it is you do want, but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it so!”


― Mark Twain

Last edited by Sue 1

In Perpetual Spring

Gardens are also good places
to sulk. You pass beds of
spiky voodoo lilies   
and trip over the roots   
of a sweet gum tree,   
in search of medieval   
plants whose leaves,   
when they drop off   
turn into birds
if they fall on land,
and colored carp if they   
plop into water.
 
Suddenly the archetypal   
human desire for peace   
with every other species   
wells up in you. The lion   
and the lamb cuddling up.
The snake and the snail, kissing.
Even the prick of the thistle,   
queen of the weeds, revives   
your secret belief
in perpetual spring,
your faith that for every hurt   
there is a leaf to cure it.
Last edited by Vicky2

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