Lines Written in Spring

Today I sat and thought about this poem as I pondered spring and all the things still left to do. 

My mind began to wander, I began to think....maybe it would be better that I look to how nature treats spring rather than how man treats it.  Its not a season meant to begin the hurry and hustle, but its also a time to reflect on beauty and glory, and new birth.  

Yes, preparing for planting is needed, but we need to be purposeful in what we do.  Do we truly love the air we breathe?  Ok, this isn't literal, but think about what its saying (or at least give some thought to my musings...and humor me *wink*).  Do we love where we are and what God has given us?  Has our season of prayer and thanksgiving really passed so swiftly?  

Perhaps this season of resolutions should be more about reflections and actions and less about weight loss, healthy eating, and getting good grades.

Perhaps, we need to carry that spirit of thankfulness with us for longer than a couple months.  

Perhaps we should seriously look at our life and see what it really looks like.   

Maybe a spring cleaning should come early and we should sweep the dust away so we can look really hard and see where our feet really are grounded upon.  

Is it on solid ground?

and MAYBE I am up to late, got too much fresh air, ate too much birthday cake or any number of things and they have taken their toll on me.  Maybe I am blowing a lot of smoke. Maybe...

Lines Written in Spring

William Wordsworth

 I heard a thousand blended notes,

While in a grove I sat 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 'tis 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.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,

To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,

That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,

If such be Nature's holy plan,

Have I not season to lament

What man has made of man?