Spring

By his cold hearth, sans Youth, sans Mirth,
Sits poor old shivering Daddy Earth.

A knock, a footstep on the floor.
“Come in!” he growls—“and shut that door!”

Two soft hands on his eyelids press;
A laughing voice: “Who am I?—guess!”

“’Tis Mistress Spring! Alas, my dear,
You find me sadly changed, I fear.”

“Cheer up!” cried Spring, “I bring for you
The Spell of Youth: Gold—Silver—Blue.”

Sun gold, sky turquoise, silver rain,
And Daddy Earth was young again!

He danced, he sang: “Hail Spring divine!
Ethereal Spring—h’m—wine?—pine—shine?”

Too late the rhyme popped in his head;
“Be mine!” he sang—but Spring had fled.