These pink wood anemones delighted me this week. Here is John Clare, the peasant poet (1793 - 1864):
Sonnet: Wood Anemone
The wood anemone through dead oak leaves And in the thickest woods now blooms anew, And where the green briar and the bramble weaves Thick clumps o'green, anemones thicker grew, And weeping flowers in thousands pearled in dew People the woods and brakes, hid hollows there, White,yellow and purple-hued the wide wood through. What pretty drooping weeping flowers they are: The clipt-frilled leaves, the slender stalk they bear On which the drooping flower hangs weeping dew, How beautiful through April time and May The woods look, filled with wild anemone; And every little spinney now looks gay With flowers mid brushwood and the huge oak tree.