Take from seventy springs a score . . .

I don't know their names - I suspect many of them are some kind of magnolia - but the trees are in full bloom now . . . a bit past their prime, in some cases. My favorite blooms are large and ivory white, with a touch of crimson toward the bud.

I feel a great sense of loss this time of year - such beauty just off the sidewalk and yet so inaccessible. There is no time to stop. Sometimes I could wish to be disembodied, to hang among the branches, to watch their buds become blossoms and leaves in their turn, in absolute quiet.

It was cloudy today. I passed a row of such trees - six or so. The branches moved with the wind, and the ground beneath was strewn with petals. It was was grave and lovely.

"Now, of my threescore years and ten, twenty will not come again . . ."

Yes, Mr. Housman, I know.

Not that it does any good.