Whispers of April: Emerson, Goodale, and Shelley in Bloom

April 3, 2020

On this day, as the garden yawns and stretches from its winter slumber, we find ourselves drawn once more to the delicate awakening of April—moist, blustering, and irrepressibly alive.

The poets, those perennial companions to gardeners, have long caught this season in words more fragrant than lilacs, and more enduring than any tulip bloom.

Ralph Waldo Emerson, a sage who knew the deep parallel between soil and soul, reminds us that the chill and drip of April are not dreary portents but preludes to rebirth:

April cold with dripping rain
Willows and lilacs brings again,
The whistle of returning birds,
And trumpet-lowing of the herds.
— Ralph Waldo Emerson, American essayist and poet

How cheering the thought!

That even in the damp discomfort of early spring, nature hums to her own triumphant tune—the birds rehearsing their melodies, the meadows answering with green whispers. April’s drizzle is not misfortune; it is tender choreography, each raindrop conducting the slow resurrection of color.

Then comes the jubilant voice of Dora Hill Read Goodale, a teacher of hearts if ever there was one, who cannot contain her delight at seeing April’s reappearance:

Oh, how fresh the wind is blowing!
See! The sky is bright and clear,
Oh, how green the grass is growing!
April! April! Are you here?
— Dora Hill Read Goodale, American poet and teacher

How she sings!

Her lines ripple with the same giddiness I see in gardeners flinging open potting sheds and brushing off their straw hats. The soil smells of warmth returned, of promises waiting to be sown. Even the most jaded among us cannot help but soften under April’s green-gold light.

And then—ah, Shelley. Ever the dreamer, ever the romantic—he gives us one of literature’s most exquisite gardens, blooming with a tenderness almost divine. His “Sensitive Plant” is the very emblem of spring’s awakening soul:

A SENSITIVE PLANT in a garden grew,
And the young winds fed it with silver dew, ...
And Spring arose on the garden fair,
Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere;
And each flower and herb on Earth's dark breast
Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest."
— Percy Bysshe Shelley, English romantic poet, The Sensitive Plant

From his greenhouse of verse, Shelley captures what every gardener feels but cannot quite express—the miracle of the first green shoot, the quiet gasp of awe when buds open as though following some secret celestial cue. Love, life, and leaf are all entwined here, spun into one radiant thread.

So take heart, dear gardener.

April is not merely a month; it is a promise fulfilled. The wind may be brisk and the ground still muddy beneath your boots, but within that chill lies enchantment. Each seed you plant now is a declaration of faith in beauty yet to come—a whisper to the earth that, like Shelley’s “Sensitive Plant,” you too are ready to rise from your wintry rest.

And should you step outside tomorrow morning, cup of tea in hand, breathe deeply.

You might just hear April herself reply, with a wink and a gust of lilac-scented air, “Yes, my dear—I am here.”