Age does wither tulips, but custom does not stale their infinite variety, as Shakespeare might have said. This morning's pick makes an unusual mix, but it's one that's more than the sum of its parts.
Despite the loveliness of the tulips, today I feel assailed by many things so it might be best to adopt the approach Adrian Mitchell took in his poem Celia, Celia:
When I am sad and weary,
When I think all hope has gone,
When I walk along High Holborn
I think of you with nothing on.
(It was used years ago in the wonderful Poems on the Underground series, and it always cheered me up when I read it on a tube train. I once went to an AM poetry reading - he was great - and he recited this to an audience who clearly expected more verses and just didn't get the brevity and wit.)