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One of the joys our technological civilization has lost is the excitement with which seasonal flowers and fruits were welcomed; the first daffodil, strawberry or cherry are now things of the past, along with their precious moment of arrival. Even the tangerine -- now a satsuma or clementine -- appears depipped months before Christmas.

January gray is here, like a sexton by her grave; February bears the bier, march with grief doth howl and rave, and April weeps -- but, O ye hours! Follow with May's fairest flowers.

Every year, back come Spring, with nasty little birds yapping their fool heads off and the ground all mucked up with plants.

February, when the days of winter seem endless and no amount of wistful recollecting can bring back any air of summer.

In the marvellous month of May when all the buds were bursting, then in my heart did love arise. In the marvellous month of May when all the birds were singing, then did I reveal to her my yearning and longing.

April is the cruellest month, breedingLilacs out of the dead land, mixingMemory out of desire, stirringDull roots with spring rain.Winter kept us warm, coveringEarth in a forgetful snow, feedingA little life with dried tubers.

The first day of spring is one thing, and the first spring day is another. The difference between them is sometines as great as a month.

No spring, nor summer beauty hath such grace, As I have seen in one autumnal face.

Youth is like spring, an over-praised season more remarkable for biting winds than genial breezes. Autumn is the mellower season, and what we lose in flowers we more than gain in fruits.

The year's at the spring and day's at the morn, Morning's at seven' The hillsides dew-pearled; The lark's on the wing; The snails on the thorn: God's in his heaven All's right with the world!