Vernal Equinox: Alban Eilir, Ostara, Fifth Station of the Year/Induna/Goddess month of Columbina commences/Egyptian Day
Today is also sacred to the Norse goddesss Iduna, bearer of the magic apples of life who personifies the light half of the year. She appears on this day as a sparrow, bringing joy to humans.
— Pagan Book Of Days, Nigel Pennick
It is spring again. The earth is like a child that knows poems by heart. — Rilke
Early Spring — Rilke
Harshness vanished. A sudden softness
has replaced the meadows’ wintry grey.
Little rivulets of water changed
their singing accents. Tendernesses,
hesitantly, reach toward the earth
from space, and country lanes are showing
these unexpected subtle risings
that find expression in the empty trees.
from The Garden — Andrew Marvell
What wond’rous life in this I lead!
Ripe apples drop about my head;
The luscious clusters of the vine
Upon my mouth do crush their wine;
The nectarine and curious peach
Into my hands themselves do reach;
Stumbling on melons as I pass,
Ensnar’d with flow’rs, I fall on grass.
Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less,
Withdraws into its happiness;
The mind, that ocean where each kind
Does straight its own resemblance find,
Yet it creates, transcending these,
Far other worlds, and other seas;
Annihilating all that’s made
To a green thought in a green shade.
Here at the fountain’s sliding foot,
Or at some fruit tree’s mossy root,
Casting the body’s vest aside,
My soul into the boughs does glide;
There like a bird it sits and sings,
Then whets, and combs its silver wings;
And, till prepar’d for longer flight,
Waves in its plumes the various light.
Such was that happy garden-state,
While man there walk’d without a mate;
After a place so pure and sweet,
What other help could yet be meet!
But ’twas beyond a mortal’s share
To wander solitary there:
Two paradises ’twere in one
To live in paradise alone.
How well the skillful gard’ner drew
Of flow’rs and herbs this dial new,
Where from above the milder sun
Does through a fragrant zodiac run;
And as it works, th’ industrious bee
Computes its time as well as we.
How could such sweet and wholesome hours
Be reckon’d but with herbs and flow’rs!
The Pulley — George Herbert
Come to the orchard in Spring.
There is light and wine, and sweethearts in the pomegranate flowers.
If you do not come, these do not matter.
If you do come, these do not matter.
“So, when you bring in and as you reclaim the shamed places of your heart, it rekindles all of that which is true about you, that you can leave the husks of shame in the past. It’s like those lilies that bloom along the streams, raising their heads above the leaves of last year — yellow, speckled — raising to the glory in their own humble way, out in the woods, wanting no adulation, just being who they are.” — T.S.