Poem for Sunday and Brookside Gardens

These I, Singing in Spring
By Walt Whitman

These, I, singing in spring, collect for lovers,
(For who but I should understand lovers, and all their sorrow and joy?
And who but I should be the poet of comrades?)
Collecting, I traverse the garden, the world—but soon I pass the gates,
Now along the pond-side—now wading in a little, fearing not the wet,
Now by the post-and-rail fences, where the old stones thrown there, pick'd from the fields, have accumulated,
Wild-flowers and vines and weeds come up through the stones, and partly cover them—
Beyond these I pass,
Far, far in the forest, before I think where I go,
Solitary, smelling the earthy smell, stopping now and then in the silence,
Alone I had thought—yet soon a silent troop gathers around me,
Some walk by my side, and some behind, and some embrace my arms or neck,
They, the spirits of friends, dead or alive—thicker they come, a great crowd, and I in the middle,
Collecting, dispensing, singing in spring, there I wander with them,
Plucking something for tokens—tossing toward whoever is near me;
Here! lilac, with a branch of pine,
Here out of my pocket, some moss which I pull'd off a live-oak in Florida, as it hung trailing down,
Here, some pinks and laurel leaves, and a handful of sage,
And here what I now draw from the water, wading in the pond-side,
(O here I last saw him that tenderly loves me—and returns again, never to separate from me,
And this, O this shall henceforth be the token of comrades—this Calamus-root shall,
Interchange it, youths, with each other! Let none render it back!)
And twigs of maple, and a bunch of wild orange, and chestnut,
And stems of currants, and plum-blows, and the aromatic cedar:
These, I, compass'd around by a thick cloud of spirits,
Wandering, point to, or touch as I pass, or throw them loosely from me,
Indicating to each one what he shall have—giving something to each;
But what I drew from the water by the pond-side, that I reserve,
I will give of it—but only to them that love, as I myself am capable of loving.

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Spring was glorious on Saturday. It was in the mid-60s, sunny, breezy. We had French toast and fake bacon for brunch, then went to Brookside Gardens, where both flowers and animals were in evidence everywhere. The huge beds of tulips are in bloom, though we couldn't get close at first because there was a wedding going on; it was worth it, though, to walk toward the Japanese garden while listening to Pachelbel's canon and "Here Comes the Bride." We saw many turtles, a great blue heron, tadpoles, frogs, barn swallows, and Canada geese including one sitting on eggs:

















We left the park mid-afternoon because Adam had a date with his girlfriend and I had plans to meet , and for dinner. As things (and carpools) worked out, we all ate at California Pizza Kitchen, though not together, since some of us were discussing fannish and political stuff and doing a bit of shopping while others were teenagers and therefore who knows what they were doing. After Maddy went home, we watched last week's Once Upon a Time recap special, then this week's Doctor Who -- men talking science, women talking love, as usual.