Salad

O cool in the summer is salad, And warm in the winter is love; And a poet shall sing you a ballad Delicious thereon and thereof. A singer am I, if no sinner, My muse has a marvellous wing, And I willingly worship at dinner The Sirens of Spring.

Take endive—like love it is bitter, Take beet—for like love it is red; Crisp leaf of the lettuce shall glitter, And cress from the rivulet's bed; Anchovies, foam-born, like the lady Whose beauty has maddened this bard; And olives, from groves that are shady; And eggs—boil 'em hard.