Even the most unpoetical nature must have been occasionally conscious of some such emotion as is embodied in these lines:
There’s to me
A daintiness about these early flowers
That touches one like poetry.
Among the visitants of March, especially if the season be mild, that now delights the eye of the observer, is the rich scarlet flower of the Pyrus Japonica; and the sweet-smelling jonquil irradiates the flower-border, and if he ventures into the fields, and braves the blustering winds of the season, he will be charmed with the bright blossoms of the celandine and the butter-cup, whose bright golden faces recall many an hour of childhood and happiness of the time when
“Daisies and buttercups gladdened our sight,
Like treasures of silver and gold.”
As we approach the Equinox, the storms and winds tempestuous and frequent, yet from these extremes, reconciled and moderated by the hand of Providence, much good results. Thus says the poet of nature, whose philosophic reflections and moral remarks are only to be equalled by his own matchless descriptions:
Be patient, swains, these cruel seeming winds
Blow not in vain; for hence they keep repressed