“I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.”

— William Wordsworth

Every time I think I’m finished writing about Spring, something new captivates me.

When I discovered that today was the birthday of William Wordsworth, my mind flooded with all kinds of wonderful memories of his poetry and beautiful images of Spring.  I knew the moment I read it that the lines above were some that I needed to share; but an hour later I found myself still reading, immersed in the genius of the man who adored nature.

Although the lines I quote were written about the Solitary Reaper, a young girl working alone and singing as she made her way through the field, another experience came to my mind when I read them.  For several days now, as I walk outside to begin my morning stroll, a tiny bird sits in the middle of the kiwi vine and sings in a voice much larger than his size, alone in the pre-dawn hour.  I’ve made a game of seeing how close I can walk before he flies to safety; and the distance is narrowing as I become more silent in my approach and he becomes more accustomed to my presence.  Today I managed to stand only a few feet from his perch and take some pictures; but the dim light revealed only a grainy outline of the virtuoso as he let out another aria in honor of the dawn.

My game now has become one of taking in his song and committing it to memory, hoping to hear it during the daylight hours and finally identify the singer.  As I turn and walk toward my path, I listen until his song is lost in the other sounds of the morning.  It really is amazing that such a tiny creature can make a sound that is audible from more than a block away.  I struggle now to recall the exact sound of his melody.  I would not be able to imitate it, but I feel confident that my ear will know it when I hear it again.  Perhaps, as Wordsworth says about the “solitary Highland lass,” I carry the music in my heart.

Have you ever found yourself so far from the confines of city or town that you felt free to sing the song in your heart?  My thoughts turn to my great-aunt, Essie.  Ethel (Essie) was born in 1886 and lived in a tiny farm town in rural Illinois.  She became a part of my family’s household before I was born, and her influence on my view of the world was profound.  When I read the Solitary Reaper, I see Essie — young and strong and filled with the joy of a bit of solitude and a job well done.  I remember the way she would sing her way through tasks she performed when I was a child.  When I catch myself singing as I weed the garden on a hot summer morning, I sometimes feel as though she is there with me, singing the harmony.

It is the joy and freedom in Essie’s song and in the song of the bird just before dawn that I bear in my heart as I walk forward into today.  The weekend ahead promises to be a perfect one for a walk in the woods.  As I sit in the middle of the week, a plan begins to take shape in my mind.  All it will require is a drive to a spot far from town and a hike into a place where the trail becomes less obvious and the trees become my only companions.  There, I will sing the song that rises from my heart to my lips and wonder whether somewhere there is another creature who will pick up the harmony — if only in listening — and bear it in his own heart.  And I will hope that there is someone of the next generation who will hear a distant song and one day find herself alone and singing in the garden.