There is singing of birds in the deep wet woods,
In the heart of the listening solitudes,
Peewees and thrushes, and sparrows– not few–
And all the notes of their throats are true.
The thrush from the innermost ash takes on
A tender dream of the treasured and gone;
But the sparrow singeth with pride and cheer
Of the might and light of the present and here.
There is shining of flowers in the deep wet woods,
In the heart of the sensitive solitudes,
The roseate bell and the lily are there,
And every leaf of their sheaf is fair.
Careless and bold, without dream of woe,
The trilliums scatter their flags of snow;
But the pale wood-daffodil covers her face,
A-gloom with the doom of a sorrowful race.
by Canadian poet Archibald Lampman
Journal note:
There’s singing in our woods now, too: the brown thrasher is practicing his repertoire; the evening sky above us is full of swallows; the wrens have recently returned now. Last week we saw the first dandelion blooms. After a long winter spring has finally sprung.
All things considered, we shouldn’t complain. Our sympathies go to those Americans dealing with the aftermath of tornadoes right now.
