Because I don't *do* wussy poets...

[rebness]

Midwinter spring is its own season
Sempiternal though sodden towards sundown,
Suspended in time, between pole and tropic.
When the short day is brightest, with frost and fire,
The brief sun flames the ice, on pond and ditches,
In windless cold that is the heart's heat,
Reflecting in a watery mirror
A glare that is blindness in the early afternoon.

T.S Eliot - Little Gidding

It’s still technically the most rubbish season of them all, but spring is grappling with winter. These things have happened in the last couple of weeks:

· Daffodils have started to come out
· Birds are now singing as dusk falls
· I don’t go home in that accursed BLACK, but to the backdrop of a rosy sky
· There is the comforting smell of freshly-cut grass everywhere, allergies be damned
· I see the sun with my own eyes, not just in pretty pictures in books
· The new season of floaty, dreamy clothes is out
· I can see the rabbits in the field opposite when I get home

How on earth can something so simple and eternal as the turning of a season make a person feel so good? I don’t know, but I’m certainly not complaining.

There shall be no odes to daffodils in this journal, by the way.

Comments

[ozfille]

No Wordsworth??? Awww!!! Leader of the English Romantic Pastoral Pack of early 19th Century poets. Don't you wan to wander 'lonely as a cloud'?

You're just suffering an early outbreak of Spring Fever, better than Hay Fever I suppose.

[rebness.livejournal.com]

Spring fever is my favourite kind of fever. Saturday night fever is a close second, though.

I hate him, hate him, hate him! He made an entire semester hell for me, what with his Lakes pontificating and his odes to daffodils and mud and cows and stuff.