La Primavera. Le Printemps. Der Frühling. Equinox of the vernal sort. It all adds up to Spring. "A little Madness in the Spring," wrote Miss Dickinson, "is wholesome even for the King." Of thee birds and poets sing/By thee snow and daffodils bring.
"Once there was a thing called Spring/ When the world was writing/ Verses like yours and mine/All the boys and girls would sing/ As we sat at little tables and drank May wine..." I reckon I'll leave out the rest of this poignant song lyric by Lorenz Hart. Richard Rodgers wrote a sad, swellegant tune to go with it.
"Come, gentle Spring! ethereal mildness, come..." so wrote James Thomson back in 1728, according to my Bartlett's. What, I wonder, was it like, walking about in the spring of 1728. Were you to be walking around my neighborhood today, you'd best be wearing your galoshes. You'd see this snowy lady on my front porch, as you walked by. Were you to walk up the shoveled path to my front door, though, you might hear Mimi barking inside (Man oh man, nothing other than a stranger rapping on the portal gets that little dog more excited!), but more than likely I'd not be coming to open up for visitors. Not at this time of day anyway. Better, sometimes, to dwell in contemplation than dither in human visitation on a snowy day in Spring.