[Congressional Record Volume 148, Number 34 (Thursday, March 21, 2002)]
[Senate]
[Page S2240]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]




                            SPRINGTIME JOYS

  Mr. BYRD. Mr. President, after a mild and dry winter full of false 
starts, of periods of almost summery weather followed by cold and 
blustery winds, spring is truly here--here in all of its glory. In that 
subtle change, the gradual brightening of days and warming of the 
earth, most of us can sense our mood shifting. Our hearts are 
gladdened, our spirits are raised, our optimism is buoyed up by more 
than the improving economic forecasts. As we cast off the last days of 
winter and welcome in the spring, we shed our weary spirits along with 
our heavy coats. Spring is here. Here it is. How sweet it is--spring. 
Our hearts echo the deep joy of Samuel Pepys' song, the poet Robert 
Browning's ode to spring:

       The year's at the spring
       And the day's at the morn;
       Morning's at seven;
       The hillside's dew-pearled;

       The lark's on the wing;
       The snail's on the thorn;
       God's in his Heaven--
       All's right with the world!
  The pansies that bloomed all winter on sheltered porches in bright 
defiance of the calendar are in their glory, joined by crocuses and 
nodding daffodils bursting through the cold earth. Lilac bushes are 
budding, promising sweet scents to come, and the gray and gnarled 
branches of old pear and apple trees are bursting forth in showy, snowy 
blossoms. Gregarious robins have returned, massed on warming lawns 
listening intently for industrious earthworms engaged in their 
subterranean tilling. Bluebirds flit and swoop among the still bare 
branches and the goldfinches, busy at the backyard feeders, are 
brightening their coloring in preparation for springtime courtship.
  Color is washing over the land. Redbud trees add rosy tints to gray 
woodlands while cheerful daffodils and forsythia bushes sparkle amid 
drab lawns and gardens. If winter brings to mind the talents of artists 
in charcoal sketches or the great etchers with their mastery of pattern 
and shading in the bold geometry of bare branches carved against 
a snowy ground, spring calls for watercolorists and sketchers in 
pastels with bright translucent colors that capture the fragile 
clearness of the springtime sunshine. Summer and fall may belong to the 
oil painters with their deep saturated colors and massing of light and 
shade, but it takes a swift hand and brush to pin down the quicksilver 
moods of springtime.

  Under foot, the cold ground yields to springtime loam begging for the 
gardener's spade. Dry stalks blush with the green glow of new growth 
that springtime's new calves tentatively nibble. The cattle are happy 
for the fresh grass after a long autumn and winter eating hay. I know 
that farmers in West Virginia are hoping for good spring rains to 
replenish the water supplies and encourage a good growth of hay after 
last year's dry spells. Pastures have been cropped close and hay 
supplies are dwindling since the autumn drought sent pasture grass into 
an early dormancy. We need rain--soft rain.
  Rain in the springtime is a lovely thing, gentle and welcome, unlike 
rain in other seasons. In summer, thunderstorms are violent, dramatic 
events, noisy and flooding, leaving streets steaming. In autumn, the 
rain can become monotonous, day after dreary day of steady sodden 
downpour filling the gutters with matted, decaying leaves. And in 
winter, cold, stinging sleet makes travel on dark roads and slick 
sidewalks treacherous. But in the spring, the rain is misty and 
companionable as my little dog Billy and I conduct our inspection tours 
of flower beds, the turf soft beneath our feet. Flower petals gain an 
added brightness from their raindrop ornaments. Spiderwebs become tiny 
crystal chandeliers draped with tiny drops in a soft and misty rain. 
And after the rain, there are rainbows shimmering like dreams overhead.

     I asked the robin, as he sprang,
     What made his breast so round and red;
     Twas looking at the sun, he said.
     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 saw the roses, one by one,
     Unfold their petals to the sun,
     I asked them what made their tints so bright,
     And 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.''

  In springtime, at Eastertide, as we celebrate the great awakening of 
life reborn, one only has to look outside to appreciate the Creator's 
handiwork. The earth is His page, the seasons His poetry writ fresh for 
us each morning.

     Welcome, yellow buttercups!
     Welcome, daisies white!
     Ye are in my spirit
     Visioned, a delight!
     Coming ere the spring-time,
     Of sunny hours to tell,
     Speaking to our hearts of Him
     Who doeth all things well.
  Mr. President, I yield the floor, and I suggest the absence of a 
quorum.
  The PRESIDING OFFICER. The clerk will call the roll.
  The assistant legislative clerk proceeded to call the roll.
  Mr. REID. Mr. President, I ask unanimous consent the order for the 
quorum call be dispensed with.
  The PRESIDING OFFICER. Without objection, it is so ordered.

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