Resplendent spring

The bud

Raring to bloom

Flowering at last

The colours that herald spring; the bare tree branches that have begun to sprout green, the flowers—a sight getting rarer in Delhi—bursting into amazing colours; the birds suddenly trilling away, louder than one remembers.

My camera phone remains quite busy when I go for the rare walk. Not knowing the names of most of the flowers is no deterrent. That can come later. It’s more important to capture them while they beckon to you—playfully, nodding, a bud today, in full bloom tomorrow. This blaze of glory is so short-lived, for the summer heat is already taking its toll.

In full glory

The young couple next door has planted a variety of flowers outside. The yellow ones especially bring William Wordsworth to mind. They aren’t daffodils, yet they are as enchanting.

Long years since I read any poetry, and sure didn’t appreciate it half as much as I do today:

Daffodils

By William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed – and gazed – but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.