[Congressional Record Volume 144, Number 32 (Friday, March 20, 1998)]
[Senate]
[Pages S2362-S2363]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]




                               ON SPRING

  Mr. BYRD. Mr. President, a great poet of the last century, William 
Wordsworth, wrote a famous piece of poetry which schoolchildren ought 
to memorize. They used to memorize it. It begins:

     I wandered lonely as a cloud
     That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
     When all at once I saw a crowd,
     A host, of golden daffodils;
     Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
     Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

     Continuous as the stars that shine
     And twinkle in the milky way,
     They stretched in never-ending line
     Along the margin of a bay;
     Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
     Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

                           *   *   *   *   *

     For oft, when on my couch I lie
     In vacant or in pensive mood,
     They flash upon that inward eye
     Which is the bliss of solitude;
     And then my heart with pleasure fills,
     And dances with the daffodils.

  Wordsworth surely wrote those lines thinking, of course, of spring 
and perhaps of March, for again this March, the crisp brown leaves of 
winter are scattering before the blustery winds, and the daffodils are 
dancing in the breeze. And like those bright heralds of spring, I come 
to the floor today to celebrate today's vernal equinox, that celestial 
marker of winter's end and the beginning of perhaps the most blessed 
season of the earth's awakening. The dark, cold days of winter may now 
be safely said to be behind us and we may all begin to think 
optimistically about shedding our somber coats of wool, our bulky 
cocoon of hats, gloves, and scarves.
  This winter has had more than the usual share of dreary, wet days in 
the Washington area. Locales more accustomed to winter and to winter's 
suntans have borne the psychic weight of day after day after day of 
unrelenting rain, of 3 months of steady downpour, floods, and 
mudslides. The mountains of my own West Virginia shouldered aside cold 
winds that left her ancient hollows heaped with snow--white, cold 
snow--that otherwise might have fallen on Washington, sheltering us in 
warmer air that caused flooding rains instead. There is hardly a spot 
in the nation that has escaped some abnormal weather occurrence, be it 
flood, freeze, gale, or tornado. I am sure that everyone joins me in 
welcoming the fading of El Nino's influence over the global weather 
patterns, but it will be a while before things return to normal. In the 
Senate, we have begun the recovery from winter's chilly wrath with the 
consideration of an emergency supplemental appropriations bill that 
will help to repair the worst of the nation's weather-spawned 
disasters.
  But just when we begin to doubt that the sun will ever replace 
automobile headlights as the main source of illumination on our 
commutes to and from work, the morning brightens to reveal long skeins 
of Canada geese again filling the sky with their sweet music as they 
wing their way back northward. The robins, returned to our lawns again, 
search out worms in the warming earth, and the bluebirds busy 
themselves with nest building.

     I asked the robin, as he sprang
     From branch to branch and sweetly sang.
     What made his breast so round and red;
     Twas ``looking at the sun,'' he said.

  The forsythia joins the crocus and daffodils in painting watercolor 
washes of lavender and yellow across lawns and roadsides. Spring's pale 
buds are peeping out from under the somber skirts of winter, giving 
hope on every tree and bulb. The annual pageant of the cherry blossoms 
cannot be far behind.
  Mr. President, I admit to being no great fan of winter. I had all of 
the snow--all of the snow that I ever cared for when I was a boy, 
walking through the hills and mountains and hollows of West Virginia. 
Neither I nor my little dog, Billy, truly enjoys making our round of 
the neighborhood in the cold and lonely evenings of winter. I do not 
like to travel on wet or icy roads, on days so gray that the dawn seems 
to fade seamlessly into dusk, when snow or sleet drives sideways into 
the windshield--no, I would rather be hibernating in a comfortable 
chair with a good book, thank you. Not the trash that one finds on the 
book stands at the airports, but a truly good book written by Emerson 
or Carlyle.

  And the beauty of the winter landscape is for me too austere, all 
shades of gray, brown, white, and black, dull after the scarlet and 
bronze riot of the fall. Give me instead the cheerful chaos of spring, 
with its stained glass window of colors, its energy, and its great 
sense of purpose.

       I asked the violets, sweet and blue,
       Sparkling in the morning dew,
       Whence came their colors, then so shy;
       They answered, ``looking to the sky'';

       

                           *   *   *   *   *
       I asked the thrush, whose silvery note
       Came like a song from angel's throat,
       Why he sang in the twilight dim;
       He answered, ``looking up at Him.''

  So give me dew, instead of frost, on the grass in the morning, and 
thunderstorms instead of blizzards in the afternoons. And fill my 
evening sky with fireflies, not icy, twinkling stars. Let me feel the 
cool breeze from the West Virginia hills on my face while the sun warms 
my back, and let me listen to the cheerful cacophony of frogs while I 
spade up sweet garden soil in which I shall soon plant my tomatoes--my 
tomatoes--Big Boy or Better Boy or Beefsteak--whatever. I see our 
Presiding Officer, who comes from the hills and lakes of Minnesota, 
smiling. He, too, is thinking of spring.

  Spring is a season for all the senses, a season savored all the more 
fully because it follows the season of greatest limits. Oh, give me the 
season so loved by poets, by Wordsworth.
  Having begun with one great poet, perhaps it is only fitting that I 
close with another, whose life overlapped the

[[Page S2363]]

first. Robert Browning surely appreciated the mysteries and the joys of 
spring. As a poet must do if his works are to stand the test of time, 
he has distilled a deep feeling, the abiding joy and contentment in the 
Creator's handiwork, and decanted it in words of pure and simple 
beauty:

     The year's at the spring,
     And day's at the morn,
     Morning's at seven;
     The hill-side's dew-pearled;
     The lark's on the wing;
     The snail's on the thorn:

     God's in his heaven--[and]
     All's right with the world!

  The vernal equinox is at hand, Mr. President, tolling its celestial 
chime of spring. Oh, welcome, spring! What a difference it makes. At 
the thought of spring, again to the words of William Wordsworth, ``And 
then my heart with pleasure fills, and dances with the daffodils.''
  Mr. President, I yield the floor and suggest the absence of a quorum.
  The PRESIDING OFFICER. The clerk will call the roll.
  The legislative clerk proceeded to call the roll.
  Mr. GRAMS. Mr. President, I ask unanimous consent that the order for 
the quorum call be rescinded.
  The PRESIDING OFFICER (Mr. Kyl). Without objection, it is so ordered.
  Mr. GRAMS. Mr. President, I ask unanimous consent to speak as in 
morning business for up to 5 minutes.
  The PRESIDING OFFICER. Without objection, it is so ordered.
  Mr. GRAMS. Thank you very much.

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