In this horrid weather, the promise of spring:
"Between
bare woods and scarcely budded hedges the great meadows looked bleak
and monotonous; and only the village gardens hung out a visible promise
of spring. But in the sheltered enclosure at Nohant, spring seemed much
nearer; at hand already in clumps of snow-drops and violets loosening
the soil, in young red leaves on the rose-standards, and the twitter of
birds in heavy black-fruited ivy of the grave-yard wall."
--"Paris to Poitiers" (Edith Wharton, 1908)
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