Today is the first day of Spring (at least in the southern hemisphere - what's the deal with the northern hemisphere??), and it deserves some literary eclat. There are some well-loved lines about Spring, though fewer than for Autumn, as I noted here. In Canberra, the cherry trees are blossoming in earnest and a lot of the big bare trees are covered in tiny buds. So here are Blake and Wordsworth, to represent the orthodox tradition.
William Blake "To Spring", 1793
O thou with dewy locks, who lookest down
Through the clear windows of the morning, turn
Thine angel eyes upon our western isle,
Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!
The hills tell one another, and the listening
Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turn’d
Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth
And let thy holy feet visit our clime!
Come o’er the eastern hills, and let our winds
Kiss thy perfumèd garments; let us taste
Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls
Upon our lovesick land that mourns for thee.
O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour
Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put
Thy golden crown upon her languish’d head,
Whose modest tresses are bound up for thee.
William Wordsworth "Lines Written in early spring", 1798
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?
I also like these lines (loosely translated) from a Han dynasty Fu - somehow more outdoorsy than Blake or Wordsworth ever sound:
Sunflowers in the field are purest green,
The morning dew awaits the sun to dry it.
The warm spring spreads round its favours,
Ten thousand things are growing in the radiance.