When the first bloom of spring breaks the frost of the past,
when the whispers of flowers return at long last,
the world seems reborn, in colors anew,
in the gentle caress of the soft morning dew.

From the dark soil awakes all the life that has slept,
a symphony played where the branches have wept.
In the chorus of nature, a message unrolled,
is a promise of beauty in the warmth of the gold.

• Émile Zola