Many years ago, when I was young and single and living in a big city, the world seemed like a dismal and dangerous place. My personal life was a mess, our country was at war, and spring was nowhere in sight.
Sitting in a neighborhood bar, I ordered a beer and paged through a magazine where I found a short poem by someone named Vachel Lindsay. Here it is:
They spoke, I think, of perils past;
They spoke, I think, of peace at last.
One thing I remember:
Spring came on forever.
Spring came on forever.
How timely, I thought, sipping my beer. Lindsay has it exactly right. Then I learned that the poem had been written in 1917, almost 50 years earlier. I copied it into a little journal I carried in my purse, knowing I’d need it again.
That was over 50 years ago now and I have never stopped needing it. There has never been a year when we were not yearning for perils to be past, for peace to come at last. Including this year, maybe especially this year. I no longer need to consult my journal because I know the poem by heart. Here it is again:
They spoke, I think, of perils past;
They spoke, I think, of peace at last.
One thing I remember:
Spring came on forever.
Spring came on forever.
