Vancouver Island Easter Morning (Coming Down)

O thou sweet-breath’d Isle of the Occidental Sea,

Where the great Pacific doth croon Her lullaby against gentle shores,

And all the Land, full-stirr’d with the Soul of the Season,

Lieth in luxuriant Dream, as in the lap of softest Time—

—Lo! Here is SPRING.

It cometh not with trumpet nor tumult,

But with the hushèd step of divinity:

A Bloom-born Benediction—

A perfum’d sigh from the hidden Heart of Heaven.

O wonder’d scene!—

The Cherry Trees, as Brides in blushing shrouds,

Let fall their snow’d confetti to the mossèd lanes;

Each Petal, a ghost of Winter's breath forgiv’n—

Each Branch, a whisper’d poem in pink and pearl.

Behold! The Camellia,

She of dusky crimson and dew-dark lashes,

Doth lean toward the low sun as though in swoon,

And the Magnolias, oh! the Magnolias—

Those vast and waxen Chalices,

Raise their Goblets of ivory and rose

To toast the Triumph of Light o’er Longest Night.

O KEATS! Hadst thou known this Flora,

Thine Ode to a Grecian Urn

Might have turn’d to Garry Oak and Rain-wrung Fern!

The Trillium bloometh in trinity—

A Priestess of the Grove, veiled in white,

Kneeling low at the altar of Shade and Soil.

SHELLEY, Spirit of the Wind!

Thou wouldst not rage here, but rejoice—

For this is not the land of ruins,

But of rising, of re-leafing,

Of the World re-writ in green-fire script.

The Earth remembereth her own youth,

And singeth it forth in sap and shoot.

And lo! now entereth HOPKINS, with wild and wingèd tongue:

“Glory be to God for dappled things—”

—For Ferns a-furl, and Mosses that maketh

Soft-spoken Sermons on bough and stone,

—For Bleeding Hearts that weep in rosy pulses,

And Rhododendrons in thunderous bloom,

All riot and reverence in one breath.

What crackling Joy lies in the very soil!

It leapeth in the leaf, it chanteth in the Creek,

It rolleth, round and round, in the Rill and the Rain.

This is no Chaos, but a Chord:

A Music of Becoming, whose Composer is unseen,

Yet every Branch and Blossom doth bear His Signature.

O blessed Isle—thou Verdant Gospel writ in root and Rose—

Let me lay beneath thy Laurels and be made new.

Let me breathe thy Balm of greenest Grace,

And take thy Fragrance as Communion.

For Spring hath come—not shouted, but Sung.

Blow, wind, blow—bring the Fever and the Bloom,

I got a pocket full o’ tissues and a head full o’ monsoon.

Spring’s a cruel little mother in a yellow perfume—

O she’ll kiss ya in the sunshine,

Then leave ya Sneezin’ in your Room.