Thursday, June 4, 2009

June. Spoon. Tune.

Today, while the Knight and I were out and about in the Mustang, it was as if I had just come out of hibernation after a very long nasty winter. I could hardly grasp the fact that it is now really June. Roses are in bloom everywhere, and green grass growin’ all around, all around. June! I didn’t think winter would ever leave. What terrifies me is that the next three months are going to whiz by and summer will vanish in a flash. And another long nasty winter will encase us in cold and snow and darkness.

This morning as I was slowly regaining consciousness, the poetic phrase “and what is so rare as a day in June?” passed through my mind. My teacher in the one-room country school made me memorize part of the poem when I was in 7th or 8th grade:

AND what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays;
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,
An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And, groping blindly above it for light,
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;
The flush of life may well be seen
Thrilling back over hills and valleys;
The cowslip startles in meadows green,
The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean
To be some happy creature's palace;
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
And lets his illumined being o'errun
With the deluge of summer it receives;
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?
Now is the high-tide of the year,
And whatever of life hath ebbed away
Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer,
Into every bare inlet and creek and bay;
Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it,
We are happy now because God wills it;
No matter how barren the past may have been,
'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green;
We sit in the warm shade and feel right well
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;
We may shut our eyes but we cannot help knowing
That skies are clear and grass is growing;
The breeze comes whispering in our ear,
That dandelions are blossoming near,
That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,
That the river is bluer than the sky,
That the robin is plastering his house hard by;
And if the breeze kept the good news back,
For our couriers we should not lack;
We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,
And hark! How clear bold chanticleer,
Warmed with the new wine of the year,
Tells all in his lusty crowing!
Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how;
Everything is happy now,
Everything is upward striving;
'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true
As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,
'Tis for the natural way of living:
Who knows whither the clouds have fled?
In the unscarred heaven they leave not wake,
And the eyes forget the tears they have shed,
The heart forgets its sorrow and ache;
The soul partakes the season's youth,
And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe
Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth,
Like burnt-out craters healed with snow.
~ by James Russell Lowell

The other poetic phrase that occurred as I was still wanting to be asleep was “a nest of robins in her hair.” At that moment, I could hear the baby robins outside our open bedroom window cheeping away. Yes, I also had to memorize that poem (which, incidentally, is considered to be a rather poor piece of poetry):

Trees by Joyce Kilmer

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth's flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

Well. So at last it’s June! I should make myself a promise to spend a minimum of 1-2 hours outside every day, just so I can prove to my psyche that I don’t live in perpetual winter. And just so I will have memories of June--of roses and green grass and baby birds to warm my heart when winter does return.