Mating

The bliss of the wind in the redbud ringing! What shall we do with the April days! Kingcups soon will be up and swinging-- What shall we do with May's!

The cardinal flings, "They are made for mating!" Out on the bough he flutters, a flame. Thrush-flutes echo "For mating's elating! Love is its other name!"

They know! know it! but better, oh, better, Dearest, than ever a bird in Spring, Know we to make each moment a debtor Unto love's burgeoning!

IV.