Wednesday Words: Sprig, Thrush

For mourning spring and other things, a cone of wafting lilacs and four sprigs of Whitman's When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd:


1. 
When lilacs last in the door-yard bloom'd
And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night,
I mourn'd--and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.
Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring;
Lilac blooming perennial, and drooping star in the west,
And thought of him I love.


3. 
In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house, near the white-wash'd palings,
Stands the lilac bush, tall-growing, with heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I love,
With every leaf a miracle--and from this bush in the dooryard,
With delicate-color'd blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
A sprig with its flower I break.


4. 
In the swamp in secluded recesses,
A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.


Solitary the thrush, 
The hermit, withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements,
Sings by himself a song.


Song of the bleeding throat,
Death's outlet song of life (for well, dear brother, I know
If thou wast not gifted to sing, thou would'st surely die.)


7. 
(Nor for you, for one alone,
Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring,
For fresh as the morning, thus would I chant a song for you O sane and sacred death.


All over bouquets of roses,
O death I cover you over with roses and early lilies,
But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first,
Copious I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes,
With loaded arms I come, pouring for you,
For you and coffins all of you O death.)

Sour, Sweet

By the time the trees leaf out, I have already tired of summer. May leaves me listless after all those blooms, preparing for the truly hot days and eyeing the green nervously--that green that stole me away from parsing sentences each year and the secret freedom of sharpening a pencil in the back of the room. The asparagus and the rhubarb arrive just as I've descended into full-fledged mourning, and I spend a couple of weeks protesting the coming of the leaves, filling my house with lilacs and reading Whitman and pretending the early blooms haven't gone, that the first peonies won't arrive for another few days. These stolen spring weeks are all rhubarb to me: all that is sour, all that is sweet. The green is coming, most assuredly, the peonies already here. But today for breakfast butter and flake give way to the sort of sour that also is sweet, the sort of sour that also is sweet.


Regarding rhubarb galettes, the making of, Lily has the sort of recipe one might follow if one were a follower of recipes. I recommend buying enough rhubarb for two. My darlings, you're going to need two.