The wheel turns.
Half day, half night.
From today the days will be longer than the nights.
Until the autumn equinox in six months.
Everywhere this weekend
the sound of lawn mowers.
The sun warm on our faces
It has arrived.
Just in time
For the first day of spring tomorrow.
'It was a Wedgwood day, with white clouds delicately modelled in relief against a sky of pale pure blue. The best of England, thought Mrs. Miniver, as opposed to countries with reasonable climates, is that it is not only once a year that you can say, "This is the first day of spring." She had already said it twice since Christmas -- once in January, when they had driven across the Marsh to the sea and it had been warm enough to lie on the sand without a coat; and once in February, when she had taken the children for a lunch picnic in Kensington Gardens. The grass had been scattered with twigs from the previous night's gale, and by the next afternoon it was snowing: but while it lasted that day had been part of the authentic currency of spring -- a stray coin tossed down carelessly on account.
But this time, she thought (though she knew quite well that one said that every time), it really was spring.'
From Mrs Miniver by Jan Struther