The following text may have been generated by Optical Character Recognition, with varying degrees of accuracy. Reader beware!

No buttoned foil, but killing blade in hand. The land and not the waste land celebrate, The rich and hopeful land, the solvent land, Not some poor desert strewn with nibbled bones, A land of death, sterility and stones. Spring is my favourite season and, in planning this Newsletter, I tried to write down all the things that Spring means to me, but it turned out to be harder than I expected to do it in an interesting way, that would appeal to another person. Just think for a moment, what Spring means to you, personally. All kinds of wonderful things! Suffice to say that it is a great awakening of all that has slept through the winter months; with the "solace of a warmer sun" life returns to the earth and the gloom of winter is gently but steadily told that its time is up. Fresh growth and colour appear as if by magic. A time for great expectations and renewed hope. Vita Sackville-West, in extracts that I have taken and re-arranged to present a continuing theme within the limited space allowed here, goes on to touch on some of the aspects of Spring and human thoughts arising from it. Let us forget the sorrows; they are there Always, but Sprinq too seldom there; Once in a life-time only; oh seize hold! Sweet in the telling once, but not re-told. In Nature's cycle, blessed once a year, Not long enough to savour, but more dear For all the anguish of its brevity. But winter passes, March is not yet done Before the solace of a warmer sun Strokes on our hands and takes us by surprise With a forgotten touch on naked skin. The almond breaks to pink against the skies; Then do we start, and with new-opened eyes See the time Spring begin. Storm of successive blossom, lightly swung, So lightly it would seem that they take wing Also, in notes ethereal, and with Spring Teach us again the sense of being young. Such days, such days so wealthy and so warm As tempt the very busy bees to swarm, Make the articulate poet silent; live Instead of speaking, leave his desk and leave His books, his foolscap, and the blue-black ink Drying upon his pen as the sun falls Hot on his table, beating on the walls. How blessed to exist and not to think! It matters not, it matters not a shred Whence beauty comes, if beauty only be Held in the heart with love her constant twin, Great myths that answer many a mystery. Innumerable, the small flowers that stitch Their needlework on canvas of the ground, In the low foreground of their tapestry They startle and exceedingly enrich. There's a profusion hardly to be counted When flow'r from bulb appears with each new Spring, Like to a spring of water newly founted, Breaking the earth, and each an Easterling.