But persistently beautiful that make us sigh,
Familiar to this month in lavenders so true,
And delicate shocks of pale saffron that reach,
When it feels not cold enough to still be winter,
By the light from the lengthening days that seem to linger,
So timid is the warmth that we feel has yet to be spring,
Already these lands are full of the wilding things,
When we reach down to touch those soft dream petals,
Once more we feel in paint and thought deep in the meadows,
Then cool as the air that flows across that silent lake,
For soon spring and the glances of love that wake,
And now for the gentle breeze that caress the wild crocuses which wait.
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