[Congressional Record (Bound Edition), Volume 145 (1999), Part 4]
[Senate]
[Pages 5063-5064]
[From the U.S. Government Publishing Office, www.gpo.gov]




                               SPRINGTIME

  Mr. BYRD. Mr. President, there is an old adage--and I have heard it 
many times, and so have you and our other colleagues--that, ``March 
comes in like a lion and leaves like a lamb.'' That adage was certainly 
turned on its ear this year. March tiptoed in on little lamb's hooves, 
as soft and warm as a curly fleece, giving us all hope of an early, 
mild spring.
  Aha. The smiles that have lighted up the faces here in the pages and 
the officers of the Senate and the employees of the Senate who sit 
before me here when I mentioned that word ``spring.''
  In West Virginia, the center of the world--half the world on one 
side, half the world on the other--West Virginia, early daffodils 
pushed through great rafts of dried leaves washed up against old stone 
farmhouse foundations that jut like rocky reefs out of sunny hillsides. 
Oh, the iridescent sunsets and the viridescent hills that are West 
Virginia's. Bluebirds decorated telephone line perches while forsythia 
blossoms announced the awakening of the Earth.
  Then the March lion roared with a vengeance, sending successive storm 
waves across the Nation. Snow buried the daffodils under a crystalline 
blanket of sparkling white. West Virginia was hit hard by these late 
storms, as were many other States. What was a boon for skiers and 
schoolchildren has been a real hardship for commerce and commuters.
  But now, as the vernal equinox and the official first day of spring 
approaches, we can all look forward to the lion at last lying down with 
the lamb. It is time, as the poet Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-
1909), wrote in ``Atlanta in Calydon'':

     For winter's rains and ruins are over,
       And all the season of snows and sins;
     The days dividing lover and lover,
       The light that loses, the night that wins;
     And time remembered is grief forgotten,
       And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,
     And green underwood and cover
       Blossom by blossom the spring begins.

  Once again, the warm sun encourages us to consider folding away our 
scarves, our gloves, and our overcoats, retiring the snow shovel to the 
shed, and pulling out instead the trowel and the seed packets.
  How many of us have enjoyed looking at those seed packets and 
fancying ourselves as young farmers, how we would grow these cucumbers, 
or these tomatoes, or this lettuce, or these onions, or the potatoes?
  What promise is contained in seed packets! What a joy. Reading garden 
catalogs during cold, dark winter days inspires small-scale gardeners 
like myself with dreams of grandeur. Ah, fancy myself growing these 
beautiful vegetables. Ah. I am sure that others have shared that 
pleasantry with me many times. A few tomato plants are all that I 
really have the time for, but for me those humble plants with the spicy 
scent, their soft leaves and glossy fruits--Better Boy, Big Boy, 
Beefsteak, Early Girl--a few tomato plants are all that I really have 
the time for, but for me, those humble plants with their spicy scent, 
their soft leaves and glossy fruits, serve each year to reconnect me 
with cycles of nature. In my few tomato plants, I share with farmers 
throughout the Nation worries about cold spells, early frosts, drought, 
excessive rainfall, fungus, and insect infestation. But, like those 
farmers throughout the Nation, I glory in the success of my efforts, 
and my family and neighbors--mostly my family--share in the bounties of 
those tomato plants.
  How can one even dare to believe that there is no God, no Creator? 
Why do I put those tomato plants in the ground? Why? I have confidence 
that the Creator of man and the universe is going to make those tomato 
plants bear some fruit.
  And this year I will delight in introducing the newest member of my 
family, too--I say to our distinguished leader, a new member of my 
family--a

[[Page 5064]]

dainty great-granddaughter, Caroline Byrd Fatemi; wait until I 
introduce her to my garden. She was born just 2 weeks ago yesterday. So 
small and precious now, she will grow strong and happy in the sunshine. 
And perhaps someday she too will grow some tomatoes.
  I do love the promise of the spring.
  William Jennings Bryan spoke of the Father, the Creator:

       If the Father deigns to touch with divine power the cold 
     and pulseless heart of the buried acorn and to make it burst 
     forth from its prison walls, will He leave neglected in the 
     Earth the soul of man made in the image of his Creator?
       If He stoops to give to the rosebush whose withered 
     blossoms float upon the autumn breeze, the sweet assurance of 
     another springtime, will He refuse the words of hope to the 
     sons of men when the frosts of winter come?

  I do love the promise of the spring. Every place is better for 
springtime's artistry. There exists no imposing monument of granite or 
marble that is not improved by a softening verdigris of springtime 
green, highlighted by bright blooms. Washington is at its best in April 
and May, under bright skies and tossing cherry blossoms, with all of 
its governmental mass leavened by leaves. Spring travels a little 
slower to the hillsides of West Virginia, but it is, perhaps, all the 
more cherished for blooming later. There, in the deep shadows of the 
hills where rhododendron thickets outline quiet chapels among the 
cathedral of the trees, greening springtime coincides in harmony with 
God's Easter promise of resurrection.
  I encourage my colleagues, and everyone else, too, to shake off the 
last of the winter blahs and go outside. Go early in the morning when 
the birds sing in grand chorus, or in the blinding brightness of noon, 
or in the lilac serenity of evening, but go outside. Go outside and 
breathe in the scent of hyacinths and fresh-turned earth. Plant a 
garden. Plant a single tomato seedling and join in the great community 
of gardeners and farmers and lovers of the earth. But do enjoy the 
springtime. It resurrects the spirit.

       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.

       And 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 toward the light.''

       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.''

  Mr. President, I yield the floor.
  Mr. CLELAND addressed the Chair.
  The PRESIDING OFFICER. The Senator from Georgia.
  Mr. LOTT. Mr. President, will the Senator from Georgia allow me a 
brief action before he makes his statement, dealing with the schedule?
  Mr. CLELAND. Mr. President, I gladly yield.
  The PRESIDING OFFICER. The Senator from Mississippi, the majority 
leader, is recognized.

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