Hope springs eternal in the human breast;
Man never Is, but always To be blest:
The soul, uneasy and confin'd from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.
– Alexander Pope, An Essay on Man (1734)
The forest floor is blanketed verdant, a carpet of spring dreams. Like the first thaw in Narnia, when Aslan is on the move, the drab of winter melts into the vibrance of spring. How poignant, hope springs eternal, in the first days of the new equinox. The trees bud in scarlet, umber, yellow, apricot. As colorful as the dying leaves of autumn, that last flame of life that burns bright as it goes quietly into the night of winter, the forest in spring is alive with light. Alive with new hope. Alive with the ascendancy of that great King to the great Throne.
It is a sign of the empty tomb.
A celebration in all of nature of victory over death.
Wrong will be right, when Aslan comes in sight,
At the sound of his roar, sorrows will be no more,
When he bares his teeth, winter meets its death,
And when he shakes his mane, we shall have spring again.
"By the Lion's Mane, a strange device," said King Peter, "to set a lantern here where the trees cluster so thick about it and so high above it that if it were lit it should give light to no man!"
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