It was such a spring day as breathes into a man an ineffable yearning, a painful sweetness, a longing that makes him stand motionless, looking at the leaves or grass, and fling out his arms to embrace he knows not what.

As for the law--it catered for a human nature of which it took a naturally low view.

Dreaming is the poetry of Life, and we must be forgiven if we indulge in it a little.

The month of May is the pleasant time; its face is beautiful; the blackbird sings his full song, the living wood is his holding, the cuckoos are singing and ever singing; there is a welcome before the brightness of the summer.

The spring has sprung, the grass is rizz. I wonder where them birdies is?

Lo! where the rosy bosom'd Hours Fair Venus' train appear, Disclose the long-expecting flowers, And wake the purple year.