I am longing for spring. Not that I've minded the winter this year. Just that I am itching for more sun, for warmer weather, for brighter colors, for flowers. So much so that I bought four bunches of daffodils on Friday. I bought the tightest buds I could find, as I enjoy watching them open up. By morning, they were open and filling the house with their musky springy scent. Made me think of the last stanza of Percy Bysshe Shelley's poem Ode to the West Wind:
Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy might harmonies
Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be though me, Impetuous one!
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!
And, by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawakened Earth
The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
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