*And Spring arose on the garden fair,
Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere;
And each flower and herb on Earth's dark breast
rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.*
Percy Bysshe Shelley, "The Sensitive Plant"
To a lovely young man who really is Friday's Child.
XXX
These are my scales to weigh reality,
A dream, a chord, a longing, love of Thee.
Real as the violets of April days,
Or those soft-hid in unfrequented ways;
Real as the noiseless tune to which we tread
The measure we by life’s old song are led;
Real as man’s wonder what his soul may be,
A guest for time or for eternity.
Real as the ocean, seen, alas! no more,
Whose tide still beats along my heart’s inshore.
These are my scales to weigh reality,
A chord, a dream, a longing, love of Thee!
By Martha Gilbert Dickinson
My nephew, his wife and daughter called in at the weekend. The baby is now 8 weeks old and absolutely gorgeous, we all had a cuddle.
The bad kitten is now 13 weeks old.
*There are willow pussies
Clad in furry goods,
And a robin singing
In the maple woods.
There's a springing crocus,
And a budding larch,
Who'd ever think the Springtime
Came along in March.*
Author Unknown
*Each violet peeps from its dwelling to gaze at the bright stars above*
Heinrich Heine
