And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England—now!
From Home Thoughts From Abroad by Robert Browning
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England—now!
From Home Thoughts From Abroad by Robert Browning
Already the
daffodils are past, and spring is about to peak. The buds are growing fat on
the trees and the uppermost lilacs—the wanton things!—allow a peek of their
first flowers.
It’s now
becoming harder to keep track of the number and variety of birds in the garden.
And hovering above the hedgerows are the sparrowhawks, so poised as they beat
their wings. Nothing epitomises Suffolk more to me than these elegant birds.
The field
opposite has been sown with oilseed rape, now in full, glorious, golden bloom.
I feel like we have entered some kind of gentle paradise.
This evening, a
last check out of the window reveals a crescent moon low on the north-west
horizon, offset by a dazzling Venus. It’s not so late, but everyone is asleep.
Now is a good time to be alive.
