Tuesday, March 08, 2005

This morning, early, I heard the voice of spring. It may be cold, it may be windy and snowy, but I heard that voice and spring is alive.

Coming, by Philip Larkin:

On longer evenings,
Light, chill and yellow,
Bathes the serene
Foreheads of houses.
A thrush sings,
In the deep bare garden,
Its fresh-peeled voice
Astonishing the brickwork.
It will be spring soon,
It will be spring soon –
And I, whose childhood
Is a forgotten boredom,
Feel like a child
Who comes on a scene
Of adult reconciling,
And can understand nothing
But the unusual laughter,
And starts to be happy.