Spring’s gladsome mystery

Spent a lovely, relaxing few hours down at our Allotment this afternoon ... Spring is surely just around-the-corner?

Major compost-works undertaken, as the snap shows, and everything has the feeling of being about to burst into growth.

So - here's an appropriate Mackenzie Bell poem about Spring, life and death:


Spring's Immortality

THE BUDS awake at touch of Spring
From Winter’s joyless dream;
From many a stone the ouzels sing
By yonder mossy stream.
 
The cuckoo’s voice, from copse and vale,
Lingers, as if to meet
The music of the nightingale
Across the rising wheat—
 
The bird whom ancient Solitude
Hath kept forever young,
Unaltered since in studious mood
Calm Milton mused and sung.
 
Ah, strange it is, dear heart, to know
Spring’s gladsome mystery
Was sweet to lovers long ago—
Most sweet to such as we—
 
That fresh new leaves and meadow flowers
Bloomed when the south wind came;
While hands of Spring caressed the bowers,
The throstle sang the same.
 
Unchanged, unchanged the throstle’s song,
Unchanged Spring’s answering breath,
Unchanged, though cruel Time was strong,
And stilled our love in death. 

---

Mackenzie Bell (1856 – 1930)

---