“the effort to start something”

With a tip of the biretta  o{]:¬)    to the Laudator

The soil, too—let others pen-and-ink the sea, the air, (as I sometimes try)—but now I feel to choose the common soil for theme—naught else. The brown soil here, (just between winter-close and opening spring and vegetation)—the rain shower at night, and the fresh smell next morning—the red worms wriggling out of the ground—the dead leaves, the incipient grass, and the latent life underneath—the effort to start something—already in shelter’d spots some little flowers—the distant emerald show of winter wheat and the rye fields—the yet naked trees, with clear interstices, giving prospects hidden in summer—the tough fallow and the plow team, and the stout boy whistling to his horses for encouragement—and there the dark fat earth in long slanting stripes upturn’d.

Walt Whitman, Specimen Days

About Fr. John Zuhlsdorf

Fr. Z is the guy who runs this blog. o{]:¬)
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  1. Jon says:

    I take it someone at the Sabine Farm has a touch of spring fever?

  2. MJS says:

    Yes, Whitman is the poet of spring. Think:

    When lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed,
    And the great star early drooped in the western sky in the night,
    I mourned — 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 [President Lincoln] whom I love.

  3. dozens of comments on other things… and this …

    beautiful thing?

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