In Honor of Spring

Nature

by Raph Waldo Emerson

I.

Winters know

Easily to shed the snow,

And the untaught Spring is wise

In cowslips and anemones.

Nature, hating art and pains,

Baulks and baffles plotting brains;

Casualty and Surprise

Are the apples of her eyes;

But she dearly loves the poor,

And, by marvel of her own,

Strikes the loud pretender down.

For Nature listens in the rose,

And hearkens in the berry's bell,

To help her friends, to plague her foes,

And like wise God she judges well.

Yet doth much her love excel

To the souls that never fell,

To swains that live in happiness,

And do well because they please,

Who walk in ways that are unfamed,

And feats achieve before they're named.

II.

She is gamesome and good,

But of mutable mood,--

No dreary repeater now and again,

She will be all things to all men.

She who is old, but nowise feeble,

Pours her power into the people,

Merry and manifold without bar,

Makes and moulds them what they are,

And what they call their city way

Is not their way, but hers,

And what they say they made to-day,

They learned of the oaks and firs.

She spawneth men as mallows fresh,

Hero and maiden, flesh of her flesh;

She drugs her water and her wheat

With the flavours she finds meet,

And gives them what to drink and eat;

And having thus their bread and growth,

They do her bidding, nothing loath.

What's most theirs is not their own,

But borrowed in atoms from iron and stone,

And in their vaunted works of Art

The master-stroke is still her part.

*     *     *

To me, spring, more than any other season 

is a time to remember the power Mother Nature wields over us.

We are dependent creatures, all of us,

borrowing each day from Her.

It's hard to remember that here,

in the 75-degrees-and-sunny concrete jungle of L.A.

But today, on this first day of spring,
I'm thinking back on our trip to the Arboretum,

marveling at that oasis of beauty amidst the concrete,

and looking forward to all the beautiful sunny days ahead!