How many more springs can I hope to see? A sanguine temper would say ten
or twelve; let me dare to hope humbly for five or six. That is a great
many. Five or six spring-times, welcomed joyously, lovingly watched from
the first celandine to the budding of the rose; who shall dare to call it
a stinted boon? Five or six times the miracle of earth reclad, the
vision of splendour and loveliness which tongue has never yet described,
set before my gazing. To think of it is to fear that I ask too much.