Well, the clocks are going forward or will have gone forward by the time I finish writing this post so Spring is more or less upon us. And it was my rediscovery of this wonderful song by Viktoria Tolstoy, unbelievably the great-great-granddaughter of writer Leo, rather than the clocks going forward here in the UK which made me realise where we were in the year. Our weather has been up and down, cold and warm, dry and wet, no sense of a season. And to say ‘rediscovery’ is a little fraudulent as I only first discovered Ms Tolstoy a few months ago when I had my Eureka moment with smooth jazz referred to in other posts. She might not rival Stacey Kent in my affections but on this particular track she hits everything right, a stunning performance. And talking of Stacey, I saw the other day she is appearing at Ronnie Scott’s in London in April. Sadly I discovered this too late, every show is booked out. Ah, next time, next time.
A much earlier reference to Spring came to me many years ago when studying Shakespeare. His Sonnet 98. The absence of his love makes all the signs of Spring still seem like Winter:
‘From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dress’d in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
That heavy Saturn laugh’d and leap’d with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any summer’s story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:
Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seem’d it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.’
Maybe we should go back further, to Aesop and ‘Winter and Spring’. Here Winter tries to lay claim to being of greater importance than mere Spring:
Winter made fun of Spring and mocked her for the fact that as soon as she appears, nobody can keep still; some people go off to the meadows or into the woods, others like to gather flowers and lilies or perhaps to gaze upon a rose as they twirl it in the air or to twine it in their hair; while some board ships and even cross the sea to meet different kinds of people; no one worries any longer about the winds or the great downpours of rain from the sky. ‘Whereas I resemble a dictator or a despot,’ said Winter. ‘I command everyone to look not at the sky but down toward the ground; I frighten them and make them tremble and sometimes I make them content themselves while having to stay at home all day.’ Spring replied, ‘Indeed, that is exactly why mankind would be glad to get rid of you, whereas even the mere mention of my name is enough to bring them pleasure. By Zeus, there is no name more pleasant than mine! That is why they remember me when I am gone and give thanks when I appear again.’
And maybe to finish a spring forward to Rosamund Marriot Watson, writing under the name Graham R. Thomson, in the late 19th century:
‘THE YELLOW light of an opal
On the white-walled houses dies
The roadway beyond my garden
It glimmers with golden eyes.
Alone in the faint spring twilight,
The crepuscle vague and blue,
Every beat of my pulses
Is quickened by dreams of you.
You whom I know and know not
You come as you came before
Here, in the misty quiet,
I greet you again once more.
Welcome, O best belovèd—
Life of my life—for lo!
All that I ask you promise,
All that I seek you know.
The dim grass stirs with your footstep,
The blue dusk throbs with your smile;
I and the world of glory
Are one for a little while.
*****
The spring sun shows me your shadow,
The spring wind bears me your breath,
You are mine for a passing moment,
But I am yours to the death.‘
Whatever Spring brings you, may it be be full of hope and happiness.
Jamie Neve 