Nothing is so beautiful as spring—
When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;
Thrush's eggs look little low heavens, and thrush
Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring
The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing;
The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush
The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush
With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.
What is all this juice and all this joy?
A strain of the earth's sweet being in the beginning
In Eden garden. — Have, get, before it cloy,
Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning,
Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy,
Most, O maid's child, thy choice and worthy the winning.
"Spring" by Gerard Manley Hopkins.
How lovely to find a poem in the public domain at Garrison Keillor's The Writer's Almanac, especially such a beauty as "Spring".
"...and thrushExquisite.
Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring
The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing;"
The song thrush is not native to our habitat, but below is a spring scene from the vine on our fence from a few years ago, which shows baby mockingbirds who think our rustling of the leaves to take a peek is a parent arriving to feed them and prepare themselves with mouths wide open.
Image of the song thrush eggs from Wikipedia.
