Frühlingsbotschaft

Leise zieht durch mein Gemüt
Liebliches Geläute.
Klinge, kleines Frühlingslied,
Kling hinaus ins Weite.

Kling hinaus, bis an das Haus,
Wo die Blumen sprießen.
Wenn du eine Rose schaust,
Sag, ich lass sie grüßen.

Heinrich Heine, 1797-1856

Bild:  Heckenröslein im Garten. Mai 2020.

Spring

When daisies pied and violets blue
    And lady-smocks all silver-white
 
 And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue
    Do paint the meadows with delight,
 

The cuckoo then, on every tree, 

Mocks married men; for thus sings he, 

                         Cuckoo; 

Cuckoo, cuckoo: Oh word of fear, 

Unpleasing to a married ear!
 

When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,
    And merry larks are plowmen’s clocks,
 

When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws, 

   And maidens bleach their summer smocks,
 

The cuckoo then, on every tree, 

Mocks married men; for thus sings he,
                         Cuckoo;
Cuckoo, cuckoo: Oh word of fear,
 Unpleasing to a married ear!

William Shakespeare, 1564-1616 (Love's Labours Lost)

Obstbaumblüte im Garten, Februar 2022

Sonnet 98 

From you have I been absent in the spring,

When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,
That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped 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.

William Shakespeare, 1564-1616

Bild:  Kirschblüte im Garten, März 2022.

Der Zauberberg. 
Sechstes Kapitel: Veränderungen. 
Thomas Mann. 1939. 

… der Schnee schmolz gewaltig, er wurde eisfarben, porös und löcherig, sackte zusammen, wo er zu Hauf lag, schien sich in die Erde zu verkriechen. Ein Sickern, Sintern und Rieseln war überall, ein Tropfen und Stürzen im Walde, und die geschaufelten Schranken an den Straßen, die bleichen Teppiche der Wiesen verschwanden, wenn auch die Massen allzu reichlich gelegen hatten, um rasch zu verschwinden. Da gab es wundersame Erscheinungen, Frühlingsüberraschungen auf Dienstwegen im Tal, märchenhaft, nie gesehen. Ein Wiesengebreite lag da, - im Hintergrunde ragte der Schwarzhornkegel, noch ganz im Schnee, mit dem ebenfalls noch tief verschneiten Scalettagletscher rechts in der Nähe, und auch das Gelände mit seinem Heuschober irgendwo lag noch im Schnee, wenn auch die Decke schon dünn und schütter war, von rauhen und dunklen Bodenerhebungen da und dort unterbrochen, von trockenem Grase überall durchstochen. Das war jedoch, wie die Wanderer fanden, eine unregelmäßige Art von Verschneitheit, die diese Wiese da aufwies… Sie sahen es näher an, sie beugten sich staunend darüber, - das war kein Schnee, es waren Blumen, Schneeblumen, Blumenschnee, kurzstielige kleine Kelche, weiß und weißbläulich, es war Krokus, bei ihrer Ehre, millionenweise dem sickernden Wiesengrunde entsprossen, so dicht, daß man ihn gut und gern hatte für Schnee halten können, in den er weiterhin denn auch ununterscheidbar überging. Sie lachten über ihren Irrtum, lachten vor Freude über das Wunder vor ihren Augen, diese lieblich zaghafte und nachahmende Anpassung des zuerst sich wieder hervorgetrauenden organischen Lebens… 

Aber der Blumenschnee wurde mit wirklichem zugedeckt, und auch den blauen Soldanellen, den gelben und roten Primeln erging es so, die ihm folgten. Ja, wie schwer der Frühling es hatte, sich durchzuringen und den hiesigen Winter zu überwältigen! Zehnmal ward er zurückgeworfen, bevor er Fuß fassen konnte hier oben, - bis zum nächsten Einbruch des Winters, mit weißem Gestöber, Eiswind und Heizungsbetrieb. Anfang Mai (denn nun ist es gar schon Mai geworden, während wir von den Schneeblumen erzählten)… 

Bild: Schneeglöckchen bei Schloss Wissen, Februar 2022.

An den Frühling 

Willkommen, schöner Jüngling! 

Du Wonne der Natur! 

Mit deinem Blumenkörbchen 

Willkommen auf der Flur! 

Ei!ei! da bist ja wieder!
 Und bist so lieb und schön! 

Und freun wir uns so herzlich, 

Entgegen dir zu gehn. 

Denkst auch noch an mein Mädchen? 

Ei, Lieber, denke doch! 

Dort liebte mich das Mädchen, 

Und 's Mädchen liebt mich noch! 

Fürs Mädchen manches Blümchen 

Erbat ich mir von dir – 

Ich komm' und bitte wieder, 

Und du? – du gibst es mir? 

Friedrich Schiller, 1759-1805 

Bild: Kamelie aus dem Garten im März 2022

 Im Frühling

Wenn Leben innrer Träume Widerschein -
Wozu sich an die blasse Stirne schlagen?
Berauschen will ich mich an allen Tagen
Und schlafe trunken vor den Säulen ein.

Die Wimpern heb ich auf - und bin erwacht.
Ein Vogel singt in blühenden Geweben.
Ich frage ihn, in welcher Zeit wir leben.
Er sagt: da Frühling Vögel singen macht.

Erschüttert bin ich: wenn ich weinen geh.
Ich gieß den Becher voll. Die Lippe trinkt.
Ich singe laut, bis Mond im Blauen blinkt,
Vergesse Mond und Lied und Li-tai-pe.

Li Tai-pe um 700, übersetzt von Klabund 1915

Bild: Heckenbraunelle bei Weeze im März 2022

 O sweet spontaneous earth
how often have the doting fingers of
prurient philosophers pinched and poked thee,
has the naughty thumb of science prodded thy beauty
 
How often have religions taken
thee upon their scraggy knees
squeezing and buffeting thee
that thou mightest conceive Gods
 
But true to the incomparable couch of death
thy rhythmic lover
thou answerest them
only with spring
 
E. E. Cummings from Tulips & Chimneys. 1923.

Bild:  Magnolie vor dem Haus im März 2022

The Crocuses

They heard the South wind sighing
A murmur of the rain;
And they knew that Earth was longing
To see them all again.

While the snow-drops still were sleeping
Beneath the silent sod;
They felt their new life pulsing
Within the dark, cold clod.

Not a daffodil nor daisy
Had dared to raise its head;
Not a fairhaired dandelion
Peeped timid from its bed;

Though a tremor of the winter
Did shivering through them run;
Yet they lifted up their foreheads
To greet the vernal sun.

And the sunbeams gave them welcome.
As did the morning air
And scattered o'er their simple robes
Rich tints of beauty rare.

Soon a host of lovely flowers
From vales and woodland burst;
But in all that fair procession
The crocuses were first.

First to weave for Earth a chaplet
To crown her dear old head;
And to beautify the pathway
Where winter still did tread.

And their loved and white haired mother
Smiled sweetly 'neath the touch,
When she knew her faithful children
Were loving her so much.

Frances Ellen Watkins, 1825-1911

Bild:  Krokusse im Garten. Im März 2022.

Spring Day 

        Bath
   The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and narcissus in the air.
   The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and bores through the water in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish-white. It cleaves the water into flaws like a jewel, and cracks it to bright light.
   Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of the water and dance, dance, and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a stir of my finger sets them whirring, reeling. I move a foot, and the planes of light in the water jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the green-white water, the sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me. The day is almost too bright to bear, the green water covers me from the too bright day. I will lie here awhile and play with the water and the sun spots.
   The sky is blue and high. A crow flaps by the window, and there is a whiff of tulips and narcissus in the air.

      Breakfast Table
   In the fresh-washed sunlight, the breakfast table is decked and white. It offers itself in flat surrender, tendering tastes, and smells, and colours, and metals, and grains, and the white cloth falls over its side, draped and wide. Wheels of white glitter in the silver coffee-pot, hot and spinning like catherine-wheels, they whirl, and twirl—and my eyes begin to smart, the little white, dazzling wheels prick them like darts. Placid and peaceful, the rolls of bread spread themselves in the sun to bask. A stack of butter-pats, pyramidal, shout orange through the white, scream, flutter, call: “Yellow! Yellow! Yellow!” Coffee steam rises in a stream, clouds the silver tea-service with mist, and twists up into the sunlight, revolved, involuted, suspiring higher and higher, fluting in a thin spiral up the high blue sky. A crow flies by and croaks at the coffee steam. The day is new and fair with good smells in the air.

      Walk
  Over the street the white clouds meet, and sheer away without touching.
   On the sidewalks, boys are playing marbles. Glass marbles, with amber and blue hearts, roll together and part with a sweet clashing noise. The boys strike them with black and red striped agates. The glass marbles spit crimson when they are hit, and slip into the gutters under rushing brown water. I smell tulips and narcissus in the air, but there are no flowers anywhere, only white dust whipping up the street, and a girl with a gay Spring hat and blowing skirts. The dust and the wind flirt at her ankles and her neat, high-heeled patent leather shoes. Tap, tap, the little heels pat the pavement, and the wind rustles among the flowers on her hat.
   A water-cart crawls slowly on the other side of the way. It is green and gay with new paint, and rumbles contentedly, sprinkling clear water over the white dust. Clear zigzagging water, which smells of tulips and narcissus.
   The thickening branches make a pink grisaille against the blue sky.
   Whoop! The clouds go dashing at each other and sheer away just in time. Whoop! And a man’s hat careers down the street in front of the white dust, leaps into the branches of a tree, veers away and trundles ahead of the wind, jarring the sunlight into spokes of rose-colour and green.
   A motor-car cuts a swathe through the bright air, sharp-beaked, irresistible, shouting to the wind to make way. A glare of dust and sunshine tosses together behind it, and settles down. The sky is quiet and high, and the morning is fair with fresh-washed air.

      Midday and Afternoon 
   Swirl of crowded streets. Shock and recoil of traffic. The stock-still brick façade of an old church, against which the waves of people lurch and withdraw. Flare of sunshine down side-streets. Eddies of light in the windows of chemists’ shops, with their blue, gold, purple jars, darting colours far into the crowd. Loud bangs and tremors, murmurings out of high windows, whirring of machine belts, blurring of horses and motors. A quick spin and shudder of brakes on an electric car, and the jar of a church-bell knocking against the metal blue of the sky. I am a piece of the town, a bit of blown dust, thrust along with the crowd. Proud to feel the pavement under me, reeling with feet. Feet tripping, skipping, lagging, dragging, plodding doggedly, or springing up and advancing on firm elastic insteps. A boy is selling papers, I smell them clean and new from the press. They are fresh like the air, and pungent as tulips and narcissus.
   The blue sky pales to lemon, and great tongues of gold blind the shop-windows, putting out their contents in a flood of flame.

      Night and Sleep  
   The day takes her ease in slippered yellow. Electric signs gleam out along the shop fronts, following each other. They grow, and grow, and blow into patterns of fire-flowers as the sky fades. Trades scream in spots of light at the unruffled night. Twinkle, jab, snap, that means a new play; and over the way: plop, drop, quiver, is the sidelong sliver of a watchmaker’s sign with its length on another street. A gigantic mug of beer effervesces to the atmosphere over a tall building, but the sky is high and has her own stars, why should she heed ours?
   I leave the city with speed. Wheels whirl to take me back to my trees and my quietness. The breeze which blows with me is fresh-washed and clean, it has come but recently from the high sky. There are no flowers in bloom yet, but the earth of my garden smells of tulips and narcissus.
   My room is tranquil and friendly. Out of the window I can see the distant city, a band of twinkling gems, little flower-heads with no stems. I cannot see the beer-glass, nor the letters of the restaurants and shops I passed, now the signs blur and all together make the city, glowing on a night of fine weather, like a garden stirring and blowing for the Spring.
   The night is fresh-washed and fair and there is a whiff of flowers in the air.
   Wrap me close, sheets of lavender. Pour your blue and purple dreams into my ears. The breeze whispers at the shutters and mutters queer tales of old days, and cobbled streets, and youths leaping their horses down marble stairways. Pale blue lavender, you are the colour of the sky when it is fresh-washed and fair . . . I smell the stars . . . they are like tulips and narcissus . . . I smell them in the air. 

Amy Lowell. Men Women and Ghosts 1916.

Bild: Spargelfelder bei Walbeck, April 2018.

 The Waste Land

  April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers…

T. S. Eliot, 1922 

There was a cherry-tree.
 Its bloomy snows
 Cool even now the fevered sight that knows
 No more its airy visions of pure joy --
 As when you were a boy.

There was a cherry-tree.
 The Bluejay sat
 His blue against its white -- O blue as jet
 He seemed there then!-- But now -- Whoever knew
 He was so pale a blue!

There was a cherry-tree -- our child-eyes saw
 The miracle:-- Its pure white snows did thaw
 Into a crimson fruitage, far too sweet
 But for a boy to eat.
 
 There was a cherry-tree, give thanks and joy!--
 There was a bloom of snow -- There was a boy --
 There was a bluejay of the realest blue --
 And fruit for both of you.

James Whitcomb Riley, 1849-1916

 Daffodils

I wandered lonely as a cloud
 That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
 When all at once I saw a crowd,
 A host, of golden daffodils;
 Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
 Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
 
Continuous as the stars that shine
 And twinkle on the milky way,
 They stretched in never-ending line
 Along the margin of a bay:
 Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
 Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
 
The waves beside them danced; but they
 Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
 A poet could not but be gay,
 In such a jocund company:
 I gazed–and gazed–but little thought
 What wealth the show to me had brought:
 
For oft, when on my couch I lie
 In vacant or in pensive mood,
 They flash upon that inward eye
 Which is the bliss of solitude;
 And then my heart with pleasure fills,
 And dances with the daffodils.
 
William Wordsworth, 1770-1850

Bild:  Aus dem Garten im März 2023.

 Maienregen 

Du hast deine warme Seele
 Um mein verwittertes Herz geschlungen,
 Und all seine dunklen Töne
 Sind wie ferne Donner verklungen. 

Aber es kann nicht mehr jauchzen 

Mit seiner wilden Wunde,
 Und wunschlos in deinem Arme
 Liegt mein Mund auf deinem Munde. 

Und ich höre dich leise weinen,
 Und es ist – die Nacht bewegt sich kaum –
 Als fiele ein Maienregen
 Auf meinen greisen Traum. 

Else Lasker-Schüler, 1869-1945 

Bild: Kirschblüte im Garten, April 2021.