Spring, when the earth tilts closer to the sun, runs a strict timetable of flowers.

I will be the gladdest thing under the sun! I will touch a hundred flowers and not pick one.

The berries of the brier rose Have lost their rounded pride: The bitter-sweet chrysanthemums Are drooping heavy-eyed.

I thought he knew me better than most...Then one nigh Jack brought me flowers, a handful of fading daisies he'd picked up at a farm stand, but flowers all the same. That was the end; that was how he ruined everything.

The sun just touched the morning;
The morning, happy thing,
Supposed that he had come to dwell,
And life would be all spring.

The lights grow brighter as the earth lurches away from the sun.