read the passage. there are several questions about the passage
from five kinds of spring
1
as long as we are able to be out of doors, spring speaks to us of promise, of renewal, of possibility. there are, of course, regional differences in both speed and mishap: in some places spring happens as slowly as lake ice melting. in other places you go to bed on one winter night, and by afternoon the next day it’s summer.
2
here at soul mountain, the country house i further renamed i am lucky enough to own, i do not work the land, but i do live in it. from my desk i look out on “thoreau pond” as it changes color. today the gray cataract of ice has shrunk to only one end of the pond, the rest dark with reflected birch trees, promise of lily pads. though not still dog days for the sultry connecticut summer, i can sense the approach of spring. soul mountain’s spring season starts in march. i’m preparing the house for the annual flow of guests, i look forward to having a houseful of young poets again. i lease the house maybe only once a day now, to check the mailbox up on the road, or occasionally to take my car out of the garage and go buy provisions. the last few days i’ve heard birds calling from the thickets, and thought, “oh, spring’s coming?” and seen a little internal dance.
3
i remember several past springs. when i was teaching in northfield, minnesota, i took my irish setter, piper, for several long walks every day. i remember noticing things one spring that i’d never noticed before, and wondering whether they’d always been there and i’d just been blind, or whether the details of this particular spring were different. i remembered wondering whether anyone would notice this spring were ten or a hundred or a thousand little things that were different this spring, or any spring, and realizing that there would be something new to notice every spring. if i paid attention. had maple trees always had two kinds of flowers? why hadn’t i ever noticed this before? were salamanders littered every march with red bud-cases? i remember feeling that everything felt, somehow, more magical than usual, and that i didn’t want to miss a thing. the world was changing, growing, unfolding, like an infant who learns several new things every day. that spring taught me the importance of awareness to the moment.
4
i spent one spring semester teaching english in hamburg, germany. there i walked almost every day from my apartment near the university to the beautiful promenade along the banks of alster lake, where i strolled through the crowds of lovers and families. i was savoring leaves of grass that spring. (i very rarely took—up the cement sidewalks of the side streets lined with impeccably kept apartment buildings, and on the white gravel paths of the park, with its trimmed hedges, white benches, and the lake beyond—detached, somehow, balanced by the loving legacy and the soaring verbal beauty of walt whitman’s poetry. “who was not proud of his songs, but of the measurables ocean of love him—and freely pour’d it forth— . ” i feel full of that “measurableness ocean-ed love” every spring, but those spring days on the alster with walt whitman helped me to recognize and name that feeling.
5
one spring i commuted weekly by plane from my home in connecticut to a writer-in-residence position in tennessee. i experienced a double spring that year, and recognized for the first time how clearly chronological the sequence of spring is. as infants follow an almost invariable sequence of development, so spring unfolds with its own predictability. i would fly out of hartford as the crocuses were starting, and arrive in nashville to a riot of daffodils. i would fly out of hartford as starfish were assembling their misty parades, and arrive in nashville to see starry individual tulips. but tennessee trumped connecticut late in the season, with its redbud trees. after their season i was too exhausted from all that flying to be able to notice what flowered next.
6
i’ve never memorized the sequence of flowerings, i’m sure gardeners know this predictable clockwork. here, it starts with crocuses of green and white crocuses growing among patches of leftover snow. then crocuses bring the first pansies. the trees pink at their branch tips, and skunk cabbage unfurls in the marsh. then a profusion of bright yellow forsythia. then the old lilac bushes, lining the driveway regular with perfume. then violets, bluebells, and a backyard azalea-minded profusion of rhododendrons. yet even i notice how each plant comes to blossom at its own time, that it will not bloom out of sequence.
7
there really is a time for everything under heaven. you don’t get back at snowdrop time. spring makes you wait.
(from “five kinds of spring” by marsha hamon. copyright © 2008 by marsha hamon. used by permission of the author.)

in paragraph 1, the author states that spring speaks of promise and possibility
which detail from the passage reflects this idea?
○ 1. \i look forward to having a houseful of young poets again.\ (paragraph 2)
○ 2. he world was changing, growing, unfolding, like an infant who learns several new things every day.\ (paragraph 3)
○ 3. \i experienced a double spring that year, and recognized for the first time how clearly chronological the sequence of spring is.\ (paragraph 5)
○ 4. \but tennessee trumped connecticut late in the season, with its redbud trees.\ (paragraph 5)

Question

read the passage. there are several questions about the passage
from five kinds of spring
1
as long as we are able to be out of doors, spring speaks to us of promise, of renewal, of possibility. there are, of course, regional differences in both speed and mishap: in some places spring happens as slowly as lake ice melting. in other places you go to bed on one winter night, and by afternoon the next day it’s summer.
2
here at soul mountain, the country house i further renamed i am lucky enough to own, i do not work the land, but i do live in it. from my desk i look out on “thoreau pond” as it changes color. today the gray cataract of ice has shrunk to only one end of the pond, the rest dark with reflected birch trees, promise of lily pads. though not still dog days for the sultry connecticut summer, i can sense the approach of spring. soul mountain’s spring season starts in march. i’m preparing the house for the annual flow of guests, i look forward to having a houseful of young poets again. i lease the house maybe only once a day now, to check the mailbox up on the road, or occasionally to take my car out of the garage and go buy provisions. the last few days i’ve heard birds calling from the thickets, and thought, “oh, spring’s coming?” and seen a little internal dance.
3
i remember several past springs. when i was teaching in northfield, minnesota, i took my irish setter, piper, for several long walks every day. i remember noticing things one spring that i’d never noticed before, and wondering whether they’d always been there and i’d just been blind, or whether the details of this particular spring were different. i remembered wondering whether anyone would notice this spring were ten or a hundred or a thousand little things that were different this spring, or any spring, and realizing that there would be something new to notice every spring. if i paid attention. had maple trees always had two kinds of flowers? why hadn’t i ever noticed this before? were salamanders littered every march with red bud-cases? i remember feeling that everything felt, somehow, more magical than usual, and that i didn’t want to miss a thing. the world was changing, growing, unfolding, like an infant who learns several new things every day. that spring taught me the importance of awareness to the moment.
4
i spent one spring semester teaching english in hamburg, germany. there i walked almost every day from my apartment near the university to the beautiful promenade along the banks of alster lake, where i strolled through the crowds of lovers and families. i was savoring leaves of grass that spring. (i very rarely took—up the cement sidewalks of the side streets lined with impeccably kept apartment buildings, and on the white gravel paths of the park, with its trimmed hedges, white benches, and the lake beyond—detached, somehow, balanced by the loving legacy and the soaring verbal beauty of walt whitman’s poetry. “who was not proud of his songs, but of the measurables ocean of love him—and freely pour’d it forth— . ” i feel full of that “measurableness ocean-ed love” every spring, but those spring days on the alster with walt whitman helped me to recognize and name that feeling.
5
one spring i commuted weekly by plane from my home in connecticut to a writer-in-residence position in tennessee. i experienced a double spring that year, and recognized for the first time how clearly chronological the sequence of spring is. as infants follow an almost invariable sequence of development, so spring unfolds with its own predictability. i would fly out of hartford as the crocuses were starting, and arrive in nashville to a riot of daffodils. i would fly out of hartford as starfish were assembling their misty parades, and arrive in nashville to see starry individual tulips. but tennessee trumped connecticut late in the season, with its redbud trees. after their season i was too exhausted from all that flying to be able to notice what flowered next.
6
i’ve never memorized the sequence of flowerings, i’m sure gardeners know this predictable clockwork. here, it starts with crocuses of green and white crocuses growing among patches of leftover snow. then crocuses bring the first pansies. the trees pink at their branch tips, and skunk cabbage unfurls in the marsh. then a profusion of bright yellow forsythia. then the old lilac bushes, lining the driveway regular with perfume. then violets, bluebells, and a backyard azalea-minded profusion of rhododendrons. yet even i notice how each plant comes to blossom at its own time, that it will not bloom out of sequence.
7
there really is a time for everything under heaven. you don’t get back at snowdrop time. spring makes you wait.
(from “five kinds of spring” by marsha hamon. copyright © 2008 by marsha hamon. used by permission of the author.)

in paragraph 1, the author states that spring speaks of promise and possibility
which detail from the passage reflects this idea?
○ 1. \i look forward to having a houseful of young poets again.\ (paragraph 2)
○ 2. 	he world was changing, growing, unfolding, like an infant who learns several new things every day.\ (paragraph 3)
○ 3. \i experienced a double spring that year, and recognized for the first time how clearly chronological the sequence of spring is.\ (paragraph 5)
○ 4. \but tennessee trumped connecticut late in the season, with its redbud trees.\ (paragraph 5)

Accepted Answer

# Brief Explanations:
To determine which detail reflects the idea that spring speaks of promise and possibility, we analyze each option:
- Option 1: "I look forward to having a houseful of young poets again" (Paragraph 2) shows anticipation for new experiences (young poets) associated with spring, reflecting promise and possibility as spring brings new beginnings and opportunities (like hosting poets).
- Option 2: Talks about the world changing and learning new things daily, focusing on awareness, not promise/possibility.
- Option 3: Discusses recognizing the chronological sequence of spring, about order, not promise.
- Option 4: Compares Tennessee and Connecticut in the season, about timing of spring, not promise.

# Answer:
1. "I look forward to having a houseful of young poets again" (Paragraph 2)

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