Spring, Her Poets

The babbling brook now bobs once more,

     The twittering birds to twit;

And through the bogs the tailless frogs

     Pipe forth to tell of it.

The hens demand a set-tled job,

     And lets her wants be known;

Along the flat the tree-toads blat

     In blatant monotone.

The speckled trout expectant shoots

     The thin, unarmored falls;

While now and then adown the glen

     A pussy willow calls.

And in their city tenements,

     Which know no springtime bliss,

The poets lay from day to day

     And write such stuff as this.

March 13, ‘98