The Call of Spring

Spring has come swaying, folding within its two robes bouquets of its blossoms and roses, which still tremble upon their boughs, seeking warmth and light. Perhaps they dream as man dreams... even as their buds open and the light unseals their eyes. I would gladly let them complete their growing... and come to their appointed end... But the desire to bend their stems before their time drives me to pick them and enjoy them, before the hand of wilting creeps upon them and robs me of a pleasure I seek and a delight in which I find rest.

I have never wished them a settled stay in vase or flowerpot, however ornamented and adorned, for I know that their life there lasts only a while; however long they linger, they move toward extinction slowly, slowly, as that rose died in the cracked vase, in the words of the French poet Alfred de Vigny. O roses, your life is short and your calamity light, and perhaps men have made of you a byword for faithlessness to the pledge; for if the beloved reproaches, or the friend persists in his blame, he will find nothing better than you by which to console himself. And what fault is yours if nature, a miser with her charms, makes your life short? Is it not said of youth that withers before its time... that its life is the life of the roses!

Yes — I do not want you to linger in a house or a hall or upon a table, for it is better for you to fall as yellow petals and molder into the earth.. The earth will not lack some remnant of your fragrance, scattered over the swaying horizon, perfuming the air. And many a passerby, hurrying past or at his ease, will murmur to himself: blessed is this good earth — it breathes the scent of roses... it is a haven of sweet herbs... ......

I cannot ward death from you.. that is the truth of life, and who can alter the nature of things? It is your immortal truth.. you come to life with spring whenever the earth gives notice of her everlasting round.

I would not have wished you scattered upon graves, were it not that some of them radiate life. I will scatter you on the graves of those unknown ones.. the unknown soldier who is driven to death, and the unknown patriot whose story time wears away.. and the scholar and the man of letters and all those who share in the being of civilization and the building of humanity. I will scatter you on the graves of the martyrs who die still striving, preferring that to living bowed and prostrate, crawling on their bellies — on those who burned away like candles to send forth light, and sank like shooting stars falling from the height of heaven.

I will scatter you in the procession of the living.. the procession of those who love one another, who feel for one another, who hold one another dear, who make a feast of life.. those whom love has joined and nature has blessed.. they are worthy of you. And I would like to scatter you in the processions of the ambitious and the adventurous.. the builders and the demolishers.. who carry the plumb line in one hand and the pickaxe in the other.

I will carry you to where you may send your fragrance into huts and houses that have known nothing but the smell of smoke.. as though they lived in a world of bramble and thorn.. for there you will find the secret of life more than you will ever find it in the fields of luxury and wealth, of plenty and ease.

I will toss you to a small boy who will carry you and hug you close, cherishing you, eager to present you with pride and honor to his master or his mistress — to the one who teaches him knowledge.

I will not scatter you in processions to court hypocrisy's favor or to put on importance.. nor will I cast you upon, or plant you in, the graves of those who died long before they were buried... rather I will keep you until the time comes when life grows beautiful as the roses.. on that day you may feel that you live in every feature of life... because you find yourself embodied in truth and goodness, in beauty and love.