The Prologue

Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote

The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,

And bathed every veyne in swich licour

Of which vertu engendred is the flour;

Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth

Inspired hath in every holt and heth

The tender croppes, and the yonge sonne

Hath in the Ram his half cours yronne,

And smale foweles maken melodye,

That slepen al the nyght with open eye

(So priketh hem Nature in hir corages);

Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages...

Chaucer, Prologue to The Canterbury Tales

Perhaps England's spring is more advanced than our own because again we are confronted with the hesitancy of spring and its reluctance to arrive in all its potential glory. Yet bit by bit it is coming with a clump of crocus here and there, the Winter Aconite finally peeking through the duff left as winter retreated, and the tiny dark blue iris coming forward to keep the crocus company, and hungry bees seek the sweet liquor found in the depths of the flower, much as the pilgrims sought the saint.