The very end of spring is green and white. Country lanes are illuminated with cow parsley, a delicate foam of tiny petals in a sea of pale green. Every year, this is what tells me summer is near. A certain kind of sadness for the dying spring, a certain kind of hope for drier days (warm and light don’t tempt me), a certain kind of longing for the autumn that will follow. Fields of cow parsley are ticking clocks of the seasons and life; fresh young flowers blossoming and dancing on the wind now, but just like everything else soon they’ll wither and die.
O final da primavera é verde e branco. As ruas do campo estão iluminadas por cow parsly, uma espuma delicada feita de pequenas pétalas num mar de verde pálido. Todos os anos é isso que me diz que o verão está próximo. Uma certa tristeza pela primavera moribunda, uma certa esperança por dias mais secos (calor e luz não me tentam), uma certa saudade do outono que se seguirá. Campos de cow parsley são como um relógio marcando as estações da vida; flores jovens e frescas desabrochando e dançando ao vento agora mas em breve, assim como todo o resto, irão murchar e morrer.
“Your hands lie open in the long fresh grass,—
The finger-points look through like rosy blooms:
Your eyes smile peace. The pasture gleams and glooms
‘Neath billowing skies that scatter and amass.
All round our nest, far as the eye can pass,
Are golden kingcup fields with silver edge
Where the cow-parsley skirts the hawthorn-hedge.
‘Tis visible silence, still as the hour-glass.
Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragon-fly
Hangs like a blue thread loosened from the sky:—
So this wing’d hour is dropt to us from above.
Oh! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower,
This close-companioned inarticulate hour
When twofold silence was the song of love.”
– Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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