[Congressional Record (Bound Edition), Volume 146 (2000), Part 2]
[Senate]
[Pages 2966-2967]
[From the U.S. Government Publishing Office, www.gpo.gov]



                            DREAM OF SPRING

  Mr. BYRD. Mr. President, today, as we observe the arrival of the 
vernal equinox and, with it, the official arrival of spring, the words 
of the poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge come easily to mind:

     All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair--
     The bees are stirring--birds are on the wing--
     And Winter slumbering in the open air,
     Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!

  Washington has turned her smiling face towards spring as well. The 
roadsides, so recently painted gray-brown with grit and dirt in the 
wake of receding glaciers of snow mounded up by mastodon plow trucks, 
have greened again. The brave crocuses have forced their way through 
the still-cold Earth to offer their first bright promise of warmer 
weather, the merry forsythia mirrors the Sun's golden light, and the 
pear and magnolia trees are softening the gray weave of bare branches 
with their pink and white petals. Washington's famous cherry blossoms 
will soon be adding their dainty petals to the spring breezes.
  It is time for the soft whisper of falling snow to be replaced by the 
conversational patter of spring rains. It is time for the volume to be 
turned up from the quiet solos of solitary winter birds to the rousing, 
full-throated chorus of springtime birdsongs.

     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;

     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 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.''

  We have this full-throated chorus of springtime voices--the violets, 
the roses, the robin, the thrush, the other bird songs--and it is time 
to spade up the garden, releasing the intoxicating perfume of rich, 
moist earth. How my little dog, Billy, loves that scent. He stands 
watch over the spade as I prepare the ground for my tomatoes, and his 
ears are pricked up, his tail is wagging, his eyes are shining with 
anticipation, waiting to chip in with paws flying, heedless of the dirt 
he will track into the house on his white coat. You see, he is a 
Maltese. This is Billy Byrd--Billy Byrd II. I used to have another dog. 
It was a cocker spaniel, but it was Billy Byrd I.
  It is also time to marvel at the mysteries of God's designs as we 
watch daffodils burn their way through dense layers of last year's 
leathery leaves in order to put on their bright show. It is time to 
wonder how a tiny crocus bulb, no larger than a thumbnail and no 
heavier than a dust-dry clod of earth, can push aside frozen Earth, 
melt its way through snow or ice, just to put out four colorful petals. 
I sometimes wonder for whom the crocuses' show is, for surely crocuses 
bloom too early for even the hardiest bee.
  William Shakespeare observed that, ``There is no ancient gentlemen 
but gardeners . . . They hold up Adam's profession.'' There is indeed a 
kinship among gardeners, whether serious gardeners whose gardens are 
their lifelong avocation, or the duffer with a few beds who buys plants 
at the local hardware store each spring. All gardeners are, at heart, 
optimists. They have to be. This season allows the gardener each year 
to fall in love all over again, and to wear on his smiling face a dream 
of spring and of greatness in the garden. He stands outside, shovel in 
not-yet-blistered hand, and has visions. He sees, not the patchy lawn 
and unkempt flowerbeds worn by winter, but some grand turf flowing like 
a green sea between islands of color, Sun, and shade. He foresees the 
abundance of the garden overflowing from his table to those of his 
friends and family. In March, it is not possible to truly believe that 
there will ever be too many tomatoes, too many zucchini, too many 
cucumbers. Each seed in the brightly colored envelope, each small 
budding plant, is precious and deserving of an opportunity to grow. 
Each is a gamble, but a gamble in which the gardener believes the odds 
are on his side. And why not? God is also on his side. Not all the 
plants will make it, but enough will, and those survivors will often 
exceed his most fecund imaginings.
  West Virginia is full of master gardeners. Their pantries and cellars 
are treasure houses filled with jewel-tone quart jars of ruby tomatoes, 
emerald green beans, and sapphire blueberries. Crystal quilted jelly 
jars hold not precious unguents, but the ambrosia of the gods--homemade 
jams, jellies, and preserves distilled from the freshest strawberries, 
plums, cherries, quinces, apples, and blackberries. West Virginia's 
home canners are well prepared to cope with the bounteous overflow of 
the overambitious gardener.
  To be a gardener is not only to be optimistic, but also to be 
patient. If something does not work out this year, there is always a 
different scheme next year. Over time, even the most scraggly sapling 
will reach majestic maturity, towering over the landscape and altering 
the microclimate of the yard

[[Page 2967]]

with its shade and its earthmoving roots. The sun-loving flowers near 
it will gradually be replaced by those which tolerate increasing 
amounts of shade. No garden is a static place--how could it be?--filled 
with so much polite but fierce competition among its denizens, and 
always under attack by invading insects and dreaded diseases--black 
spot, to be sure, rather than the Black Plague, but dreaded, 
nonetheless.
  To be a gardener is to be close to the Creator, to follow in His 
example. You see, God made the country; man made the town. To be, as 
Shakespeare said, holding up Adam's profession, that is what it is to 
be a gardener. We each try to create, at least in our dreams, our own 
small Eden. We learn the great lessons of life as we cultivate patience 
and nurture our optimism. In a garden one sees, up close--up close, up 
real close--the great mysteries of birth, life, struggle, death, yes, 
and renewal, writ small enough to comprehend and only then, to 
translate into some larger understanding that may, with age, approach 
wisdom. My chaplain will say, in a garden, God speaks to us simply, in 
the language of flowers.

     The kiss of the sun for pardon,
     The song of the birds for mirth,
     One is nearer God's Heart in the garden
     Than anywhere else on earth.

  So said Dorothy Frances Gurney, and surely her words are even more 
true in the spring garden than at any other time of year. It gives me 
joy to watch the greening of the earth, once again, and to witness the 
triumph of each little bulb and each little bud as it bursts forth, 
victorious over the chill of winter. I am filled with warmth that is 
easy to share, as I and my colleagues in Adam's profession emerge from 
our winter hibernation into the soft spring air and, with smiling 
faces, dream of spring.

     The year's at the spring
     And 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 is right with the world.

  The PRESIDING OFFICER. The Senator from North Dakota.
  Mr. DORGAN. Mr. President, let me thank the Senator from West 
Virginia. In many ways, you have never really heard spring described 
until you have heard it described by the distinguished Senator from 
West Virginia. It also fits with something I come to the floor to talk 
about.

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