[Congressional Record Volume 153, Number 51 (Friday, March 23, 2007)]
[Senate]
[Pages S3702-S3703]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]




                          SPRINGTIME ARTISTRY

  Mr. BYRD. Mr. President, once again, we welcome in the Spring.

     Blows the thaw-wind pleasantly,
     Drips the soaking rain,
     By fits looks down the waking sun:
     Young grass springs on the plain;
     Young leaves clothe early hedgerow trees; Seeds, and roots, 
           and stones of fruits, Swollen with sap put forth their 
           shoots; Curled-headed ferns sprout in the lane; Birds 
           sing and pair again.

     There is no time like Spring,
     When life's alive in everything . . .

                                             --Christina Rossetti.

  March 21 is the vernal equinox, when the day and night are, briefly, 
in perfect balance. It is the first day of spring. This year, of 
course, the early switch to daylight savings time has created the 
illusion of an earlier spring with the artificial and arbitrary 
establishment of darker mornings and longer evenings. I, for one, am 
happy to welcome an early spring. It is my favorite season, full of new 
hope and untarnished promise.
  West Virginia has seen some snow this winter. The snow was welcomed 
by skiers and farmers, but those of us who neither ski nor plow view 
snow more as a nuisance--something to be moved out of the way, 
something that complicates our commutes and closes the schools. Snow 
makes the world monochromatic, a palette that ranges along a single 
line from blinding white through the shades of gray to the tired black 
of grime-crusted snow along the roadways. We are ready for spring, 
ready for some light and for lots of vibrant color around us.
  This year, the March winds again worked their artistry, blowing away 
the flotsam and jetsam of winter to uncover a clean canvas with just 
the sweeping curves of earth and the angular armature of tree limbs 
sketched in charcoal, awaiting the Master's hand to apply delicate 
springtime washes of color. Over the past weeks, we have seen the 
Master's skill at work in the first creeping stain of green across the 
lawns and fields, the soft blush of blossoms in the wild plum trees, 
the deepening blue of the sky. Each day, the colors have grown darker, 
richer, and more vibrant, as if the warm breezes carried them to us 
from some distant sunny clime. Bright details have begun to take shape 
in the scattered spangles of violet and yellow crocus and the bright 
accents of hardy daffodils amid their grass green leaves. Oh, 
daffodils--the poets write of you! The Boston poet Amy Lowell (1874-
1925) wrote of you:

     Thou yellow trumpeter of laggard Spring!
     Thou herald of rich Summer's myriad flowers!
     The climbing sun with new recovered powers
     Does warm thee into being, through the ring
     Of rich, brown earth he woos thee, makes thee fling
     Thy green shoots up, inheriting the dowers
     Of bending sky and sudden, sweeping showers,
     Till ripe and blossoming thou art a thing
     To make all nature glad, thou art so gay;
     To fill the lonely with a joy untold;
     Nodding at every gust of wind to-day,
     To-morrow jeweled with raindrops.
     Always bold
     To stand erect, full in the dazzling play
     Of April's sun, for thou has caught his gold.

  Mr. President, spring would not be spring without the daffodils. 
Their delicate beauty and seemingly fragile petals belie their 
toughness. Year after year, the daffodils spread, competing with the 
grass and the tree roots to expand their beds. They manage to deter the 
onslaught of determined squirrels and other wild creatures who unearth 
and consume dainty and expensive spring bulbs like so many canapes at a 
reception. They push their way up into the sun through frozen ground 
and choking mats of fallen leaves. They defy howling winds and frigid 
nighttime temperatures. They survive people and houses to bloom on 
around the decaying foundations of long ago farmsteads. And they do it 
all with effortless beauty, inspiring us and filling us with joy. The 
first daffodil, like the first robin, is akin to the dove that brought 
the olive branch back to Noah--a reassurance to worried man

[[Page S3703]]

from God that the spring, like the land, will return.
  I do not want to take up too much of the Senate's time. We have 
important matters before us, matters of war and peace, matters of 
spending and accounting. But even in the heat of debate, we can each 
find joy in those first spring days. We can each feel peace in the 
steady warmth of the springtime sun, calm in the soft breeze that 
carries the scent of hyacinths, and delight in springtime flowers. The 
first day of spring is truly a time to stop and smell the flowers.

     There is no time like Spring,
     When life's alive in everything,
     Before new nestlings sing,
     Before cleft swallows speed their journey back
     Along the trackless track--God guides their wing,
     He spreads their table that they nothing lack,
     Before the daisy grows a common flower
     Before the sun has power
     To scorch the world up in his noontide hour.

     --Christina Rossetti.

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