"She refused to be bored, chiefly because she wasn't boring." Zelda Fitzgerald

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

Spring Song

Good old L.M. Montgomery...the only author I've ever finished completely...every single thing she wrote. She's dreamy, her themes are hopelessly romantic and I have to admit a touch of lip curling amusement and slight condescension over her repetitive themes and naivete. And yet. And yet...really people. She invented Anne-of-Green-Gables, one of the most fabulous heroines of all time and like her compatriot Louisa May Alcott, this sort of classic, pure hopefulness may feel sappy but, there's something very lovely and basic and honest about it too. Her, Spring Song (although I'm a touch late since she was writing in April) makes a catch in my throat and is such a beautiful description of the romantic golden days we're drifting through at the moment that I can't help posting it to share with you.

The weather yesterday? Sun, light shower of rain, blue skies, fluffy clouds
The weather today? Golden sunlight, light breezes, blue skies, puffs of cloud
The weather tomorrow? Partly sunny, chance of spring thunderstorm, light breeze

*sigh* There is no end to the loveliness. The roses are budding their heads off (I think we'll have quite a garden show to welcome Baby!), and the black raspberry vines and honeysuckle are climbing madly all over their respective fences and even between the stepping stones I'm watching the Irish moss ripple industriously outward, greener, ever greener....
Spring Song  
by Lucy Maud Montgomery
Hark, I hear a robin calling!
List, the wind is from the south!
And the orchard-bloom is falling
Sweet as kisses on the mouth.

In the dreamy vale of beeches
Fair and faint is woven mist,
And the river's orient reaches
Are the palest amethyst.

Every limpid brook is singing
Of the lure of April days;
Every piney glen is ringing
With the maddest roundelays.

Come and let us seek together
Springtime lore of daffodils,
Giving to the golden weather
Greeting on the sun-warm hills.

Ours shall be the moonrise stealing
Through the birches ivory-white;
Ours shall be the mystic healing
Of the velvet-footed night.

Ours shall be the gypsy winding
Of the path with violets blue,
Ours at last the wizard finding
Of the land where dreams come true.


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