We Haste Away So Soon



Fair Daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
Has not attain’d his noon.
Stay, stay,
Until the hasting day
Has run
But to the even-song;
And, having pray’d together, we
Will go with you along.
We have short time to stay, as you,
We have as short a spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you, or anything.
We die
As your hours do, and dry
Like to the summer’s rain;
Or as the pearls of morning’s dew,
Ne’er to be found again.
~Robert Herrick “To Daffodils”
So short a spring:
today some parts of this land are in the throes of winter with blizzards, ice storms and snow drifts keeping them home-bound on the Sabbath.  There is little hope for the brave bulbs that tried to surface from the ground over the last several weeks.
Here in the northwest, we are springing late as well, with chill winds and unending rain. The daffodils have melted on the stem unable to sustain the battering while hordes of slugs luxuriate with unending voracious appetites for their petals.
We ourselves aren’t much different than these tender blooms – though we hope not to be chewed to death, we are, after all,  here today, gone tomorrow.  When bud bursts to blossom, we flame hearty with such exuberant joy, then wither until we are no more.
We are, for our brief days, a reflection of the Sun itself, just as we should be.

4 thoughts on “We Haste Away So Soon

  1. For the past several winters, I promised myself I wouldn’t let another Spring come and go without setting up camp in the yard to watch, in real time, a flower bloom from start to finish. Now it seems this won’t be the year. As much as I need Spring, our country needs it more. Still, I hope for June, and peonies. And peace.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Emily,

    I am delighted to have found this place of beauty— the poetry, the nature photography and the personal reflections are all life-giving. (I followed a link from Sr. Dorcee’s blog to yours.) I once lived a stone’s throw from Whatcom County, so your images evoke ones in my own internal photograph album.

    This post resonated with me, because on a recent birthday, I chafed at the “old” jokes that came my way. My mortality, my own decaying, does not sit well with me. But I am warmed and encouraged when I think about how, during their fleeting season, daffodils absorb and reflect the sun’s yellow. Even when their heads hang low, they are still poetry.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Thank you, Stacy, for following Sr. Dorcee’s link and for your wonderful insights. So glad to have a former “neighbor” come to visit my blog. Blessings, Emily


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