Every spring
I hear the thrush singing
in the glowing woods
he is only passing through.
His voice is deep,
then he lifts it until it seems
to fall from the sky.
I am thrilled.
I am grateful.

Then, by the end of morning,
he’s gone, nothing but silence
out of the tree
where he rested for a night.
And this I find acceptable.
Not enough is a poor life.
But too much is, well, too much.
Imagine Verdi or Mahler
every day, all day.
It would exhaust anyone.”
― Mary Oliver, A Thousand Mornings

Stanley Spencer

A more poetical “Less is more”. The poetry of music is undermined by its continuity…
The song of the thrush is perfect, mysterious, and atoning for all the sadness and grimness of winter…
In my culture there is an old saying “miracles last for two days”. Banality cuts deep also into the birds’ song not just into a fabrication of people that is classical music.
Spring is the Renaissance age of the entire year when the marvels of the new earth dictates the rhythm of life.