It's snowing, and the tulips on Pearl street haven't any wool coats to keep them warm.
Being absolutely opposed to venturing outside, I have curled up beneath some down, and will instead take comfort in the dream
of true Spring.
"O, how this spring of love resembleth
The uncertain glory of an April day;
Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,
And by and by a cloud takes all away."
-The Bard, Two Gentlemen of Verona
I found these images over at Dustjacket Attic. This one puts me in the mind of Shakespeare's Twelfth Night, and all that wandering about in the gardens, overhearing things.
"If music be the food of love, play on;
Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.
That strain again! it had a dying fall:
O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stelaing and giving odour!