I’m dreading the arrival of spring. It’s not that I prefer winter. But there’s something about spring that gives me pause. “You mention spring’s delaying—I blamed her for the opposite,” Emily Dickinson wrote, in May 1866. “I would eat evanescence slowly.” That’s me in a nutshell, here in Dickinson’s Amherst where I live, eating evanescence slowly. Dickinson is the great poet of the torments of spring, it seems to me, when everything has thawed—except us.
Source : The Torments of Spring
