Ah spring, death be damned. That you would visit again was never in doubt. For even those who mock you, by their demonstrations of ignorance have intercourse with thee. And as we stagger forth, as sluggards casting off winter's coat to walk among the daffodils we catch a glimpse of something. What is this thing enjoying sweet repose? It is neither you nor I, for human countenance this contrivance does not possess. But how it leers. What is this patient, rapacious creature of bad intent. Is it death?