A Backward Spring

The trees are afraid to put forth buds,

And there is timidity in the grass;

The plots lie gray where gouged by spuds,

And whether next week will pass

Free of sly sour winds is the fret of each bush

Of barberry waiting to bloom.

Yet the snowdrop's face betrays no gloom,

And the primrose pants in its heedless push,

Though the myrtle asks if it's worth the fight

This year with frost and rime

To venture one more time

On delicate leaves and buttons of white

From the selfsame bough as at last year's prime,

And never to ruminate on or remember

What happened to it in mid-December.

A quote from a Hardy novel

“It may have been observed that there is no regular path for getting out of love as there is for getting in." (Far from the Madding Crowd)

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