Algernon Charles Swinburne wrote the following lines in 1865:
For winter's rains and ruins are over,
And all the season of snows and sins;
The days dividing lover and lover,
The light that loses, the night that wins;
And time remembered is grief forgotten,
And in green underwood and cover
Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
And Robert Seymour Bridges (1844_1930), another British poet, wrote:
While yet we wait for spring, and from the dry
And blackening east that so embitters March,
Well housed must watch grey fields and meadows parch,
And driven dust and withering snowflake fly;
Already in glimpses of the tarnished sky
The sun is warm and beckons to the larch,
And where the covert hazels interarch
Their tassell'd twigs, fair beds of primrose lie.
Beneath the crisp and wintry carpet hid
A million buds but stay their blossoming;
And trustful birds have built their nests amid
The shuddering boughs, and only wait to sing
Till one soft shower from the south shall bid,
And hither tempt the pilgrim steps of spring.
And there is a saying, (though the author is unknown):
"Perhaps the reason flowers open is because they yearn to be picked and carried away."
