Return Again, Sacred Harp 335

I used to not care for spring; the air seemed always too raw and full of pollen, the sun too bright and burning, the earth rotting and swollen and stagnant with rains. At that time I was a lot more sensitive to the light and wind because of an illness, and now I am near the end of my convalescence. Instead of planting my garden and visiting it seldom until the milder days of early summer, I am now out in it pottering around as often as I can. Yes, I sing to my plants. And my garden is very nice just at present. 

There are very few things that make it so evident I am healthier than I have been in the past few years than the fact that I welcome the sun on my face and that it actually feels good without me having to bully my brain into thinking that this is so. What kind of person shrinks from a kindly breeze? But I did once, because it felt harsh and brazen, hot and heavy-handed. I see now how hard it must have been to have compassion on me and to pity me without condescension. If I had not felt so powerless I would not understand, now. 

How sad I have been! How cringing, how weak! How utterly wretched I was. How happy am I.