I love words
because sometimes they themselves
are more beautiful
than the thing they're describing.
There were none of the signs of spring
for which I used to watch in Virginia,
no budding woods or blooming gardens.
There was only--spring itself;
the throb of it,
the light restlessness,
the vital essence of it everywhere:
in the sky, in the swift clouds,
in the pale sunshine,
and in the warm, high wind.