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Lovely, however, as are its blossoms, they are like 
most lovely things,—short lived; if they do not “come 
up in a night, and perish in a night,” yet their days are 
numbered: they bud, bloom, and die in less than a 
fortnight. Their very frailty, however, has immortalised 
them in the following touching lines by Herrick:— 
“ Ye may simper, blush, and smile, 
And perfume the air awhile; 
But, sweet things, ye must be gone; 
Fruit, ye know, is coming on: 
Then, ah ! then, where is your grace, 
When as cherries come in place.” 
Season of hope and promise ! art thou come,— 
Come widi thy changeful looks, thy smiles and tears. 
Thy angry sallies, and relentings kind ? 
I welcome thee, capricious as thou art. 
Nay, oft I think thy very waywardness 
Adds but more sweetness to thy gentler moods. 
How have I long’d for thee! how watch’d each sign 
Which show’d me of thy coming—from the hour 
When the pale snowdrop, ever in the van 
