My youngest daughter, Dorea, is finishing out a run of The Fantasticks in Winston-Salem this weekend. On Tuesday (hence my blog silence), my oldest daughter Aletheia and I took a road trip south to see her perform. The show is beautifully imagined, the music and acting not only carefully crafted but effortless, and there was a tenderness that overflowed from the relationship between the cast into the audience that I found moving. 

Try to Remember, a song whose popularity goes beyond Broadway, opens the show. With a warm baritone the narrator, El Gallo, urges us to take a moment and reflect on our own youth, that time when we were innocent and open.

Try to remember when life was so tender
That dreams were kept beside your pillow.
Try to remember when life was so tender
That love was an ember about to billow.
Try to remember, and if you remember,
Then follow.

If we are able to remember our own experiences, then this story of young love will resonate. If not, perhaps it can offer us a sympathetic vehicle with which to travel into our past and look upon ourselves with kindness and understanding.

Remembering our youth, the experiences, the relationships, the dreams, the disappointments is what this poem by Longfellow touches upon. In My Lost Youth Longfellow weaves his memories of childhood around a "Lapland song" whose lines create the refrain at the end of each stanza.
 
A boy's will is the wind's will
And the thoughts of a boy are long, long thoughts. 

Slowing down on this couplet opens some questions. How should we interpret the "wind's will?" Although known to be fickle, wind can also be strong. And while thoughts can be fleeting, through the repetition of the word "long," Longfellow intimates something substantial. I'm reminded of a sailboat, driven by the wind and yet on an ocean with an endless horizon. There is play between the strength of the wind and the ability to hoist one's sail and take control. But most importantly, there is plenty of room to maneuver, even if one might get blown off course. 

The rhyme structure of the poem is neatly balanced until we reach the final 4 lines. Then our sense of order is jarred by the fact that the last line does not end with "long," which rhymes quite handily with "song." Despite the repetition of "long" which gives some amount of satisfaction, we are left hanging a bit on "thoughts." Perhaps this open-endedness allows a bridge from the past to the current act of reflection in which the poet is now engaged.

The Lapland song which plays in Longfellow's mind is not static, but fluid; at times it haunts or murmurs or whispers or sings. Sometimes a burden, it is also described as wayward, mournful, sweet, fitful, beautiful, and fatal. In this, it is not unlike the soundtracks of our own lives, which change and morph depending on which vignette of our past we choose to play. 

It takes time and some effort to review one's childood, and many of us tend to be fully engaged in the present or the future, not leaving much room for past reflections. But I wonder if another reason we don't access our childhood is because of a reticence to engage in the conflicting emotions of our past. Someone once told me that most people cannot remember middle school, as it is an extremely painful period of development. And yet, as El Gallo tells us, "without a hurt, the heart is hollow."

All of our experiences make us who we are. "Nothing is ever really lost, or can be lost," opens Whitman's poem Continuities. And so Longfellow comes to realize as he finishes his reverie. He has not flinched from the retrospective, the pain of those "things of which [he] may not speak, and dreams that cannot die." He acknowledges that there is discomfort with the changes that come over the years. "Strange are the forms I meet" he says, upon visiting his childhood home. And yet for all this, his lost childhood comes back to him as a welcomed gift; in the dreams of the days that were, it ignites a joy so profound, it is almost painful.


 
My Lost Youth 
by Henry  Wadsworth Longfellow
 
Often I think of the beautiful  town
       That is seated by the sea;
Often in thought go up and down
The pleasant streets of that dear old town,
       And my youth comes back to me.
             And a verse of a Lapland song
             Is haunting my memory still:
       "A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I can see the shadowy lines of its trees,
       And catch, in sudden gleams,
The sheen of the far-surrounding seas,
And islands that were the Hesperides
       Of all my boyish dreams.
             And the burden of that old song,
             It murmurs and whispers still:
       "A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the black wharves and the slips,
       And the sea-tides tossing free;
And Spanish sailors with bearded lips,
And the beauty and mystery of the ships,
       And the magic of the sea.
             And the voice of that wayward song
             Is singing and saying still:
       "A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the bulwarks by the shore,
       And the fort upon the hill;
The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar,
The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er,
       And the bugle wild and shrill.
             And the music of that old song
             Throbs in my memory still:
       "A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the sea-fight far away,
       How it thundered o'er the tide!
And the dead captains, as they  lay
In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay,
       Where they in battle died.
             And the sound of that mournful song
             Goes through me with a thrill:
       "A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 

I can see the breezy dome of groves,
       The shadows of Deering's  Woods;
And the friendships old and the early loves
Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves
       In quiet neighborhoods. 
             And the verse of that sweet old song,
             It flutters and murmurs still:
       "A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the gleams and glooms that dart
       Across the school-boy's brain;
The song and the silence in the heart,
That in part are prophecies, and in part
       Are longings wild and vain.
             And the voice of that fitful song
             Sings on, and is never still:
       "A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

There are things of which I may not speak;
       There are dreams that cannot die;
There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,
And bring a pallor into the cheek,
       And a mist before the eye.
             And the words of that fatal song
             Come over me like a chill:
       "A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

Strange to me now are the forms I meet
       When I visit the dear old town;
But the native air is pure and  sweet,
And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street,
       As they balance up and down,
             Are singing the beautiful song,
             Are sighing and whispering still:
       "A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair,
       And with joy that is almost pain
My heart goes back to wander there,
And among the dreams of the days that were,
       I find my lost youth again.
             And the strange and beautiful song,
             The groves are repeating it still:
       "A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."



Note: There are several youtube offerings of Whitman's poem read aloud and put to music and/or photography the I found enjoyable.

I like this breezey poem by Updike, capturing many things I love about this month, although we haven't seen much morning haze. The last few days have been perfectly clear, so sparkling that it's been almost impossible to repress a smile out of doors. Pick-your-own apples are starting at the nearby orchard, so applesauce-making won't be long in coming, and the library is hosting a Bee Festival over the weekend. There's still zinnias to pick, and late beans to harvest. What's not to love about September?

September
John Updike (from a Child's Calendar)

The breezes taste
Of apple peel.
The air is full
Of smells to feel-

Ripe fruit, old footballs,
Burning brush,
New books, erasers, 
Chalk, and such.

The bee, his hive,
Well-honeyed hums,
And Mother cuts
Chrysanthemums.

Like plates washed clean
With suds, the days
Are polished with
A morning haze.

A friend reminded me of a delightful children's book yesterday. Frederick, written by Leo Lionni, tells the story of a mouse who, while the rest of the mice gather seeds for the winter, sits by himself in the sun. Accused of daydreaming, he informs the other mice that he is gathering sun rays for the cold, dark days. And that's not all. As the harvesting continues, the little mouse adds words and colors to his store. And in the long, dark months underground, it is Frederic with his endless stories and vibrant memories who offers nourishment for the other mice until winter is finally at an end.

My friend is like Frederick. She notices and collects experiences and images, making sense of them, and, much like Mary, the mother of Jesus, ponders them in her heart. There they rest until, engaging in conversations with her friends or spiritual directees, she brings those ponderings out from her treasure chest, nurturing the souls of those she is with.

The process of gathering and storing is also present when I read When On a Summer's Morn, by William Davies, a Welsh poet who spent a significant part of his life as a hobo. It is birdsong that awakens his senses on a summer morning, the "clear, born-singing rills" invite his bird-like spirit out into the sunlit day. Here is a largesses of sound; some of it, like the common leaves humming all day, may even require a different sort of listening. As the day ends, the author returns, heart full of music. I wonder if, like Frederick, the memory of this day, the theme of his own composition, will continue to gladden his heart (perhaps the hearts of others) when the summer has faded.

When on a Summer's Morn
William Henry Davies

When on a summer's morn I wake,
And open my two eyes,
Out to the clear, born-singing rills
My bird-like spirit flies.

To hear the Blackbird, Cuckoo, Thrush,
Or any bird in song;
And common leaves that hum all day 
Without a throat or tongue.

And when Time strikes the hour for sleep, 
Back in my room alone,
My heart has many a sweet bird's song -
And one that's all my own.

There are small tomato, pepper and broccoli plants sitting in a box in front of my sliding glass door. In addition to several dozen marigolds, they are waiting for my mother to come by and take them (along with lots of good advice) to one of my nieces, who lives in New Jersey. I received them up from my sister last week and now am anxiously hovering over them, lest they die on my watch.

When my mom returns for a few days, we'll be digging up a part of the side yard to make a perennial garden. The thought of finding and owning foxglove, bleeding hearts, lupine, columbine and irises again makes me almost giddy! Back in the days when I had a larger plot of lawn, I dug (well, my husband dug) a good bit of it up into garden. But now that I have a smaller area, and not a lot of sun, I have to content myself with flowers, which is like saying I have to be happy with only dessert.

There's nothing like getting dirt under one's fingers during the spring. Edgar Guest, whose poems I've posted here and here, offers gardening as a tonic for what ails you. All the drama you could ever want, (take that, you aphids!) and more...

Plant a Garden
Edgar House

If your purse no longer bulges
and you've lost your golden treasure,
If at times you think you're lonely
and have hungry grown for pleasure, 
Don't sit by your hearth and grumble,
don't let mind and spirit harden.
If it's thrills of joy you wish for
get to work and plant a garden!
 
If it's drama that you sigh for,          
plant a garden and you'll get it
You will know the thrill of battle
fighting foes that will beset it.
If you long for entertainment and
for pageantry most glowing,
Plant a garden and this summer spend
your time with green things growing.
        
If it's comradeship you sigh for,          
learn the fellowship of daisies.
You will come to know your neighbor
 by the blossoms that he raises;
 If you'd get away from boredom
 and find new delights to look for,       
Learn the joy of budding pansies
which you've kept a special nook for.
        
If you ever think of dying and you
fear to wake tomorrow
Plant a garden! It will cure you          
of your melancholy sorrow
Once you've learned to know peonies,    
petunias, and roses,
You will find every morning         
some new happiness discloses.

"Oh no," my friend wailed as we turned the corner. "They've cut down all the trees." I turned and looked. Along the field at the base of the hill, the line of trees which had once edged the large swatch of grass, punctuating the open space like so many colons, were gone. The landscape looked as forlorn as my friend.

Even if there is a good reason to cut down a tree - the ones behind our townhome have stretched their roots into the water pipes - it is hard not to grieve one's death. Especially when they have become dear friends, harbored neighboring squirrels, provided color, texture, architectural lines, shade, and eerily breathy pipes for the evening winds.

In The Trees are Down, the poet decries the demise of the great plane-trees at the end of her garden. By choosing to describe the lumbermen's talk as "common," she implies that they are oblivious to the sacredness of their task, their 'Whoops' and 'Whoas,' as out of place as whistling at a funeral. 

The energy of Spring is all about life. Even a rat, a "god-forsaken thing," deserves to be alive in Spring, she muses in the next paragraph. Perhaps a rat may die in the winter, but in the warmth of May, all creatures should be alive. The rat's death "unmakes" for a moment some of the joy, the verdant power of springtime.

And if the Spring was undone for a moment by noticing the death of a rat, so the cutting of the trees, these "great trees," signify an unmaking of the Spring which will have lasting implications. Having shared half her life with these woody guardians, the author mourns a deep personal loss. She is companioned by the quiet rain, weeping as the "whole of the whispering loveliness" is carted away.

The Trees are Down
Charlotte Mew

...and he cried with a loud voice;
Hurt not the earth, neither the sea, nor the trees -- 
(Revelation)

They are cutting down the great plane-trees at the end of the garden.
  For days there has been the grate of the saw, the swish of the branches as they fall.
The crash of trunks, the rustle of trodden leaves,
With the 'Whoops' and the 'Whoas', the loud common talk, the loud common laughs of the  
  men, above it all.

I remember one evening of a long past Spring
Turning in at a gate, getting out of a cart, and finding a large dead rat in the mud of the 
  drive.
I remember thinking: alive or dead, a rat was a god-forsaken thing,
But at least, in May, that even a rat should be alive.
The week's work here is as good as done. There is just one bough
  On the roped bole, in the fine grey rain,
            Green and high
            And lonely against the sky.
                  (Down now!-)
            And but for that,
            If an old dead rat
Did once, for a moment, unmake the Spring, I might never have thought of him again.

It is not for a moment the Spring is unmade to-day;
These were great trees, it was in them from root to stem:
When the men with the 'Whoops' and the 'Whoas' have carted the whole of the whispering
   loveliness away
Half the Spring, for me, will have gone with them.

It is going now, and my heart has been struck with the heart of the planes;
Half my life it has beat with these, in the sun, in the rains,
            In the March wind, the May breeze,
In the great gales that came over to them across the roofs from the great seas.
           There was only a quiet rain when they were dying;
           They must have heard the sparrows flying,
And the small creeping creatures in the earth where they were lying---
            But I, all day, I heard an angel crying:
                   "Hurt not the trees."

Every spring I wait eagerly for the pink double cherry blossoms to burst into bloom outside my kitchen window. Since we live in a stacked townhome, I look out at branch level and feel like pink clouds have overtaken the sky. This year's early spring and then a not-too-surprising cold dip made me fear that the blossoms had frozen, but they tenaciously appeared.

Here's a poem by A.E. Housman, who had a similar love for the beauty of the cherry (although his blossoms were white, not pink.) The poem is one of 63 poems from a work entitled Shropshire Lad. Housman's work was infused by the brevity of youth  and the tenor of this poem reminds me of the famous opening lines from  Robert Herrick's poem  To the Virgins to make most of time. "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may," Herrick admonishes the young women, "Old time is still a-flying".

I hope you have a chance to get out this weekend and enjoy the loveliness of spring while it stil lingers.

from A Shropshire Lad
A. E. Housman

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.