what man has made of man…

I’m embracing Spring with big wide open arms…I’m rushing toward Spring as it moves slowly down the jetway, having just stepped off the plane. I’m expecting Security to pull me back at any moment. Damn Security.

Nevertheless, I thought I’d gather me up some Springtime poetry to post and ran across this one by William Wordsworth. What struck me was this line amidst the references to spring:

“And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.”

This idea being that nature continues to make of itself what it is meant to make…this neverending cycle of life, death, rebirth…I imagine Wordsworth would have been fairly freaked out to see “what man has made of man” in the years since he died. I know I’m fairly freaked out about it.  And yet…in the wake of the natural disasters that have struck in just the last year of our world history I am moved by the grace and the compassion that we show to one another in times like this. No matter what our politics, no matter what our disagreements about religion, we do somehow manage to pull it out of the fire, don’t we?

So, enjoy these lines by Wordsworth…I hope they spur us on to making us better toward one another in the day to day of our lives…

 

Lines Written in Early Spring

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

 

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

 

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And ’tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

 

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:—
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

 

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

 

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature’s holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

 

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