Tag Archives: springtime

“Faith in Spring” by Johann Ludwig Uhland

I spent a pleasant Friday evening with my friend Brian. At one point during the evening Brian mentioned the below poem, “Faith in Spring”, by Johann Ludwig Uhland (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ludwig_Uhland). I must confess to having no German, nor had I heard of the poet who’s poem is reproduced below:

Die linden Lüfte sind erwacht,
Sie säuseln und wehen Tag und Nacht,
Sie schaffen an allen Enden.
O frischer Duft, o neuer Klang!
Nun, armes Herze, sei nicht bang!
Nun muß sich alles, alles wenden.
Die Welt wird schöner mit jedem Tag,
Man weiß nicht, was noch werden mag,
Das Blühen will nicht enden.
Es blüht das fernste, tiefste Tal:
Nun, armes Herz, vergiß der Qual!
Nun muß sich alles, alles wenden.

Faith In Spring

The gentle winds are awakened,
They murmur and waft day and night,
They create in every corner.
Oh fresh scent, oh new sound!
Now, poor dear, fear not!
Now everything, everything must change.
The world becomes more beautiful with each day,
One does not know what may yet happen,
The blooming doesn’t want to end.
The farthest, deepest valley blooms:
Now, poor dear, forget the pain!
Now everything, everything must change.

Why the Budds Are Sticky In Springtime

As a small boy, I remember my grandfather telling me the below story, as to how the buds come to be sticky in springtime. I always assumed that he took the story from a collection of fairytales. However I have searched high and low and it would appear that he invented the tale to entertain me. However, if anyone does know the origin of the tale please do leave a comment. (I don’t remember the tale word for word so have used poetic license when retelling it).

In spring, a group of naughty gnomes (all unseen)
Did toadstools paint with glue
In order to catch the fairy queen.
‘Tis true
For my grandfather told me how the queen stuck fast
And, at last,
On her escape, she did say
To the gnomes “go your way
For I pardon your crime.
But, come springtime
You
Must paint the budds with your pots of glue.
Every year mind,
Or you shall find
That I am not so kind!”
So every year
Out of fear
Of what the fairy queen would do
Where they to forget,
The gnomes paint the budds with glue
(they are busy yet)!

The Poet On The Hill

The poet on the hill

Sits still

And ponders why

Man must die.

The weather is fine

nature or the divine

causes the sun to shine.

Every living thing

Will have it’s spring.

The newly opened  flower

time will devour.

The blossom’s heady scent,

is quickly spent.

Men   soon disperse

We are lent this earth.

All must enter the dark wood

The bad along with the good.

The poet continues to ponder

While yonder

The light begins to fade.

Man’s destiny is the grave.