In spring everything has such a margin! there are such spaces of silence! The influences are at work underground. Our delight is in a few things. The drying road is enough; a single wild flower, the note of the first bird, the partridge drumming in the April woods, the restless herds, the sheep steering for the uplands, the cow lowing in the highway or hiding her calf in the bushes, the first fires, the smoke going up through the shining atmosphere, from the burning of rubbish in gardens and old fields,--each of these simple things fills the breast with yearning and delight, for they are tokens of the spring. The best spring poems have this singleness and sparseness. Listen to Solomon: "For lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in the land." In Wordsworth are some things that breathe the air of spring. These lines, written in early spring, afford a good specimen:-- "I heard a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind." "To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man. "Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And 't is my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. "The birds around me hopped and played, Their thoughts I cannot measure: But the least motion which they made It seemed a thrill of pleasure." Or these from another poem, written in his usual study, "Out-of-Doors," and addressed to his sister:-- "It is the first mild day of March, Each minute sweeter than before; The redbreast sings from the tall larch That stands beside the door. "There is a blessing in the air, Which seems a sense of joy to yield To the bare trees, and mountains bare, And grass in the green field. . . . . . . . . . "Love, now a universal birth, From heart to heart is stealing, From earth to man, from man to earth; It is the hour of feeling. "One moment now may give us more Than years of toiling reason: Our minds shall drink at every pore The spirit of the season." It is the simplicity of such lines, like the naked branches of the trees or the unclothed fields, and the spring-like depth of feeling and suggestion they hold, that make them so appropriate to this season. At this season I often find myself repeating these lines of his also:--