English poem
Spring
by Oliver Herford (1863–1935)
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.