The Upper Midwest doesn't do spring well, or at least not according to the standards of, say, England, which I'm told actually has a discrete season of spring. In Michigan we alternate between cold, gray, Novemberesque rains; sudden, strange bursts of 75 degree, sunkissed weather that send schoolchildren out the door in the morning in shorts and flip-flops; and snow or ice storms. And then it's summer in earnest, at the end of May. Peas and primroses do not do well here. And it is very rare that our Easters, unless they're very late, in any way resemble the popular Easter Day image of flower-kissed meadows and butterflies and fuzzy nestlings. (Unless you count, say, the hardy offspring of early breeders like crows and owls, whose pictures would probably not sell a lot of Easter cards.)
Here is a poem about late springs.