March 6, 2014

peeking out the window...

All I can say is, it isn't pretty anymore.  All that white stuff floating down from the sky, drifting like fine lace across the tree branches can go away.  Preferably now.  I promised you a week by week look at how spring is approaching, but it seems spring is playing coy this's one baby step forward and three giant steps back. Someone at work changed the sign that read "15 days til spring" to "spring has been cancelled."  We all dispiritedly agreed that might be true.  No one has the oomph to play Pollyanna when it comes to the weather anymore.

I happened to catch the movie with Hayley Mills as Pollyanna on television last week, but I simply don't think playing her "Glad Game" will help with our foul weather moods right now.  And that's a double foul--foul weather outside as well as foul moods indoors!

I can't quite figure out how to be glad at what I saw yesterday in my backyard--five more inches of snow!
Last week

Yesterday...this is not progress!

Last week


But even though winter's dregs are weighing us down and every spirit on the earth seems as fervourless as I, writer Thomas Hardy must have been playing the Glad Game when he wrote this lovely poem---I am sure Pollyanna would appreciate how the thrush chooses to fling his soul upon the growing gloom.  Maybe it's time we join in the game...what have we got to lose at this point?  

The Darkling Thrush

I leant upon a coppice gate
      When Frost was spectre-grey,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
      The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
      Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
      Had sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seemed to be
      The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
      The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
      Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
      Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among
      The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
      Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
      In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
      Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
      Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
      Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
      His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
      And I was unaware.

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