I think the roses have climbed and climbed and climbed until they hang from the branches and walls and creep over the ground--almost like a strange gray mist.

Some of them have died but many--are alive and when the summer comes there will be curtains and fountains of roses.

I think the ground is full of daffodils and snowdrops and lilies and iris working their way out of the dark.

Now the spring has begun--perhaps--perhaps--" The soft drone of her voice was making him stiller and stiller and she saw it and went on.
"Perhaps they are coming up through the grass--perhaps there are clusters of purple crocuses and gold ones--even now.

Perhaps the leaves are beginning to break out and uncurl--and perhaps--the gray is changing and a green gauze veil is creeping--and creeping over--everything.