The solitude in this heavenly place is sweet balm to my soul, and the youthful time of year warms with its abundance my often shuddering heart. Every tree, every hedge is a nosegay of blossoms; and one would wish to be turned into a cockchafer, to float about in that sea of fragrance . . . and find in it all the nourishment one needs.
- Goethe, The Sorrows of Young Werther
I'm waiting, albeit patiently, for that "youthful time of year."