Today I spent some time waiting for the bus. In one spot where I was waiting is a cherry tree. So today I was at this bus stop and the cherry tree was in bloom. Blossoms out, petals raining down, floating in the breeze. Automatic mood lifter. Not sure which sense makes it so. Maybe it's a team effort between the sense.
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'Blossoms out, petals raining down, floating in the breeze.' Your words are much like a haiku. And like a beautiful poem the ephemeral nature of a cherry tree in blossom speaks to the deepest part of our hearts.
Wordswoth's Ode to Intimations of Immortality begins with this stanza:
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;—
Turn wheresoe'er I may,
By night or day.
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
and ends with these four lines:
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
Your writing is most evocative too.
William Wordsworth's name doesn't immediately hook me like those of Blake and Keats do. Ah, but when I go back and actually read him, I am again impressed.
Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?—
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;—
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
And I thank you. In writing nonfiction I try to articulate facts and my point of view, but sometimes it's good to just capture a feeling.
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