No winter lasts forever; no spring skips its turn.
March is a tomboy with tousled hair, a mischievous smile, mud on her shoes and a laugh in her voice.
The longer I live and the more I read, the more certain I become that the real poems about spring aren't written on paper. They are written in the back pasture and the near meadow, and they are issued in a new revised edition every April.
April is a promise that May is bound to keep.
No Winter lasts forever, no Spring skips its turn. April is a promise that May is bound to keep, and we know it.
Man is not an aquatic animal, but from the time we stand in youthful wonder beside a Spring brook till we sit in old age and watch the endless roll of the sea, we feel a strong kinship with the waters of this world.
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