After a long and cold winter I, like other old men in Britain, am enjoying the warmth of the spring sunshine and in my case the sight of daffodils and flowering shrubs in my garden.
I thought of poems about spring to match my mood and considered, T.S.Eliot's :
'April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain'.
From 'Burial of the Dead' in 'The Wasteland' and rejected it for the anonymous American :
Ode to Spring
'Spring has sprung,
The Grass has riz,
I wonder where the birdies is ?
The little bird is on the wing,
But that’s absurd!
Because the wing is on the bird!'
Charlie Chaplin's 'take' on spring in 'Limelight' made when I was 5 years old in 1952 :