Spring! How beautiful is the Spring! How wonderful is the Spring! How majestic is the Spring! How fantastic is the Spring! How tantalizing is the Spring! How glorious is the Spring! How melodious is the Spring! How joyful is the Spring! How breathtaking is the Spring! How uplifting the Spring! How happy is the Spring! How magnificent is the Spring! How colorful is the Spring! How tasteful is the Spring! How memorable was the Spring! How flavorful is the Spring! How aromic is the Spring! How sweet is Spring! How beautiful is the Spring! Alex Fischer
William Blake (from Poetical Sketches, 1783)
O thou who passest throÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢ our valleys in Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat That flames from their large nostrils! thou, O Summer, Oft pitchedst here thy golden tent, and oft Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld With joy, thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.
Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard Thy voice, when noon upon his fervid car Rode oÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢er the deep of heaven: beside our springs Sit down, and in our mossy valleys, on Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream: Our valleys love the Summer in his pride To Autumn
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twinÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â©d flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â€šÂ¬Ã¢â‚¬Â While barrÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â©d clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn.
Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind
Act II, Scene 7 from As You Like It by William Shakespeare (1600)
Blow, blow, thou winter wind. Thou art not so unkind As manÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s ingratitude; Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen, Although thy breath be rude. Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly: Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: Then, heigh-ho, the holly! This life is most jolly. Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, That dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot: Though thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not so sharp As friend rememberÃ¢â‚¬â„¢d not. William Shakespeare
(If you've been paying attention here, and you're a Minnesotan, you know we only have TWO seasons-Winter and Road Repair. I'll get to that:-)