Everything is blooming most recklessly; if it were voices instead of colors, there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night.
The snowdrop and primrose our woodlands adorn, and violets bathe in the wet o' the morn.
Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, a box where sweets compacted lie.
Springtime is at hand. When will you ever bloom, if not here and now?
Meanwhile spring arrived. My old dejection passed away and gave place to the unrest which spring brings with it, full of dreams and vague hopes and desires.
The little windflower, whose just opened eye is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at.
I love to see a wood full of bluebells. Growing up in the Kent countryside, I have special memories of this brief annual spectacle.
I'm a very big fan of winter-flowering shrubs and bulbs. You have the smell, you have the color - it's really like a present from God when something like that is in flower in the middle of the snow.
All things seem possible in May.
Nothing ever seems impossible in spring, you know.
