Spring regenerates and renews. Hope springs anew in springtime. So run the old saws. And yet they are saws born out of the truth of being alive in the vigorous and ever unpredictable “nowtime” of this moment in the dizzying year, when rough winds shake those darling buds of soon-to-be May. In medieval lyrics such as the following, spring is a kind of Pied Piper figure, exhorting, inviting us to self-awakening. Human lovers seem to be not only observers of, but also participants in, all of nature’s many forms of joyous self-replenishings. The door has been slammed shut upon woebegone winter. Lenten ys come with love to toune,With blosmen ant with briddes roune,That all this blisse bryngeth.Dayseyes in this dales,Notes swete of nyghtingales –Uch foul song singeth...