‘I must go down to the sea again,’ said John, ‘to the lonely sea and the sky.’

‘In April I would prefer to be in England,’ said Robert.

‘But it’s still January. Ah, St Agnes’s Eve, bitter chill –  ‘

‘Johnny,’ Percy reminded, ‘if Winter comes can Spring be far behind?’

‘Anyway, April is the cruellest month,’ said Tom. ‘Winter kept us warm, covering earth in forgetful snow.’

‘It is Aprille with his shores sote,’ said Geoffrey, ‘when longen folk to goon on pilgrimages.’

‘One Spring,’ mused Will, ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud that floats on high o’er vales and hills – ‘

‘We know,’ the others chorused. ‘When all at once you saw a crowd, a host, of golden daffodils. You told us.’

‘Ah,’ sang Bill, ‘the flowers that bloom in the Spring, tra la.’

‘It is Spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black.’ Dylan fell asleep.

‘In Spring,’ said Alfred, ‘a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.’

‘My love,’ said Rabbie, ‘is like a red, red rose that’s newly sprung in June.’

‘And after April, when May follows, and the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!’

‘Yes, Robert,’ the others said. ‘We know you’re fond of birds.’

‘Indeed. The lark’s on the wing; the snail’s on the thorn; God’s in His heaven – all’s right with the world.’

‘You think so?’ asked Johnny. ‘The enjoying of the Spring fades as does its blossoming – ‘

‘Oh, come,’ Algy interrupted. ‘Be cheerful. The hounds of Spring are on Winter’s traces.’

Dylan roused himself from his stupor. ‘He’s right, Johnny. You always were a melancholic. Think of the nightingale and what about that urn you were telling us about? What was it you said?’

‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty.’

‘There you are then. Put some more coal on the fire, boyo.  Anything left in that bottle?’

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