This bright morning lacks hints of the promised late afternoon thunderstorm. It's all birdsong and dew on grass and small, pale clouds dodging the tops of trees. It's the rattle of bug legs unfolding and the staccato march of kitchen ants, and it's the uncertain crowing of a single rooster: is it spring or not?
If it is spring, then I turn things over to Hopkins, who says it better than I ever could:
NOTHING is so beautiful as spring --
When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;
Thrush's eggs look little low heavens, and thrush
Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring
The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing;
The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush
The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush
With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.
What is all this juice and all this joy?
A strain of the earth's sweet being in the beginning
In Eden garden. -- Have, get, before it cloy,
Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning,
Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy,
Most, O maid's child, thy choice and worthy the winning.
Gerard Manley Hopkins