When I was last at home in Cork, I picked up a second-hand poetry anthology which I keep by my bed. It was originally owned by a 14 year old girl who has annotated the poems which she had to learn for school. The poems are divided up by theme. In the section on seasons, there is a poem by Thomas Hardy, â€œWeathersâ€. I feel itâ€™s fair to say that Thomas Hardy is not the most obscure of poets, he pretty much says what he means.
The first stanza of â€œWeathersâ€ goes as follows:
This is the weather the cuckoo likes,
And so do I;
When showers betumble the chestnut spikes,
And nestlings fly;
And the little brown nightingale bills his best,
And they sit outside at ‘The Traveller’s Rest,’
And maids come forth sprig-muslin drest,
And citizens dream of the south and west,
And so do I.
Beside this in rounded, firm handwriting, our student has written the word â€œSpringâ€. Indeed.