(no subject)

It is snowing, and the daffodils, which - for the first time since we have lived here - have not been eaten by the deer, are covered under a snowy mound of white.

This season's Daffodil,
She never hears
What change, what chance, what chill,
Cut down last year's:
But with bold countenance,
And knowledge small,
Esteems her seven days' continuance
To be perpetual.

Kipling