The oddest thing is that only today did the last of the snow depart our roof, and the downspouts cease their trickling. Snow remained in patches all about, but insects buzzed as though the pollination of the world couldn't wait. I hope the weather does not go all soft for any length of time, as the lake still looks pretty much like picture A, and much more winter is needed to make it look like picture B. Picture B is the goal.
by Thomas Hardy
(I) THIS is the weather the cuckoo likes, And so do I; When showers betumble the chestnut spikes, And nestlings fly; And the little brown nightingale bills his best, And they sit outside at 'The Traveller's Rest,' And maids come forth sprig-muslin drest, And citizens dream of the south and west, And so do I. (II) This is the weather the shepherd shuns, And so do I; When beeches drip in browns and duns, And thresh and ply; And hill-hid tides throb, throe on throe, And meadow rivulets overflow, And drops on gate bars hang in a row, And rooks in families homeward go, And so do I.