Poetry always gets us ready for spring

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Algernon Charles Swinburne  (1837–1909)
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 frosts are slain and flowers begotten, And in green underwood and cover Blossom by blossom the spring begins.

“Spring is like a perhaps hand” by E. E. Cummings
Spring is like a perhaps hand (which comes carefully out of nowhere) arranging a window into which people look (while people stare arranging and changing placing carefully there a strange thing and a known thing here) and changing everything carefully.

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812 by Emily Dickinson
A Light exists in Spring
Not present on the Year
At any other period —
When March is scarcely here

A Color stands abroad
On Solitary Fields
That Science cannot overtake
But Human Nature feels.

It waits upon the Lawn,
It shows the furthest Tree
Upon the furthest Slope you know
It almost speaks to you.

Then as Horizons step
Or Noons report away
Without the Formula of sound
It passes and we stay —

A quality of loss
Affecting our Content
As Trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a Sacrament.

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