Le printemps...

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

William Wordsworth 1804

According to Wordsworth, Shakespeare (and every romantic poet that ever existed I guess) Spring is the time of beauteous new life. Shakespeare himself being most concerned with making sure that lads and lasses let not the dew of youth pass them by without sowing and raising their wild seeds. Even though Shakespeare makes me swoon with a single line, I shan't be out there making sure that I don't ripen before it's too late - but Springtime surely makes one approach life with renewed vigour and verve.

The sun has come out in the last few days, drenching the sodden Earth with a possessive sensuous heat, a Samba beat against pale and timid Winter-pale skin. It's almost indecent the sensation of heat licking over your body after months of hiding timidly from the great outside and the bitter, biting chill. My mind has come alive with a languid unfurling from the tight place it had hibernated inside while my body luxuriates in the caressing humidity.

Everything is possible in Spring. Every dream is touchable. Every happening imbued with some special significance. Keats and Tennyson and Yeats could not but be intoxicated as the flowers opened and colour and perfume drowned the world. Even prosaic matters such as driving to work in the cheerful early light (not the mysterious cool of Autumn or Winter) are saturated with cliches as I drive along heavy bowered avenues trying to catch a Jacaranda bloom to guarantee good luck on my exams.

The Monkey is simply sparkling as the energy of Spring breathes into the deepest recesses of her tiny body. Her cheeky grin is brighter, her eyes snap, and the confidence Spring has brought her means that her steps become surer every day. Her silvery little giggle can make even my most haggard days feel young and light.

The Elfling is blooming too. Not the crafty pixie gleam of the Monkey, but a warmer, more effusive light. Her mess of golden curls is wild in the sudden humidity and her perfect skin is blushed with warmth. Her jewel coloured eyes are eponymous with Jade and she has become an untamed woodland sprite who glories in the green and the earth.

Everything is possible in Spring. My dreams are not fancies, but prophecies. I dance in the light of the Gleam and I cross back o'er the bar enriched and spent. One drinks it in and that magic liquor makes replete.