The roofs are shining from the rain,_x000D_ _x000D_ The sparrows twitter as they fly,_x000D_ _x000D_ And with a windy April grace_x000D_ _x000D_ The little clouds go by._x000D_ _x000D_ Yet the back yards are bare and brown_x000D_ _x000D_ With only one unchanging tree-_x000D_ _x000D_ I could not be so sure of Spring_x000D_ _x000D_ Save that it sings in me.
Interpretation
The quote reflects the beauty and renewal of spring, emphasizing personal connection to the season's essence.
In this poignant poem by Sara Teasdale, the imagery of shining roofs and twittering sparrows conveys the refreshing energy of springtime. Despite the bare backyards that signify the remnants of winter, the speaker finds reassurance and vitality in the inner feeling of spring, illustrating how the beauty of nature can inspire and resonate within us, connecting the external world to our internal emotions.
In practice
In a nature appreciation group, one could share this quote to express the joy of recognizing spring's arrival.
As the waves of perfume, heliotrope, rose, _x000D_ _x000D_ Float in the garden when no wind blows, _x000D_ _x000D_ Come to us, go from us, whence no one knows; _x000D_ _x000D_ So the old tunes float in my mind, _x000D_ _x000D_ And go from me leaving no trace behind, _x000D_ _x000D_ Like fragrance borne on the hush of the wind.
From my spirit's gray defeat, From my pulse's flagging beat, From my hopes that turned to sand Sifting through my close-clenched hand, From my own fault's slavery, If I can sing, I still am free. For with my singing I can make A refuge for my spirit's sake, A house of shining words, to be My fragile immortality.
I thought of you and how you love this beauty, And walking up the long beach all alone I heard the waves breaking in measured thunder As you and I once heard their monotone. Around me were the echoing dunes, beyond me The cold and sparkling silver of the sea -- We two will pass through death and ages lengthen Before you hear that sound again with me.
Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer, Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing, Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects, Ceaseless, insistent. The grasshopper's horn, and far-off, high in the maples, The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence Under a moon waning and worn, broken, Tired with summer.
Let it be forgotten, as a flower is forgotten, Forgotten as a fire that once was singing gold, Let it be forgotten forever and ever, Time is a kind friend, he will make us old.
For I shall learn from flower and leaf, That color every drop they hold, To change the lifeless wine of grief To living gold.
Harvest moon: around the pond I wander and the night is gone.
By confronting us with irreducible mysteries that stretch our daily vision to include infinity, nature opens an inviting and guiding path toward a spiritual life.
As a child, I used to have a secret dread - and a recurring nightmare - of the whole world becoming city, being covered with cement and buildings and streets. No more country. No more woods.
What we lose in our great human exodus from the land is a rooted sense, as deep and intangible as religious faith, of why we need to hold on to the wild and beautiful places that once surrounded us.
It may be doubted that there are many other animals which have played so important a part in the history of the world as have these lowly organized creatures.
Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west.
Subscribe for the occasional hand-picked quote. No noise.