Paroles

When the spring comes, every poet,
….Be he great, or be he small,
Loudly spouts, and thinks his spouting,
….Is the greatest of them all.

Sprouts be of the bursting budlets,
….Of the azure, cloudless sky,
Just as if we didn’t know it
….Was a soft poetic lie.

And we hate him—yes, we hate him!
….When we feel rheumatic pain,
Just to hear him gently murmur
….Of the February rain.

And his singing of the March winds,
….And the fragrant, sweet bluebell,
When we’re doubled with neuralgia—
….O! It makes us want to yell!

Yell with all our spring-filled lunglets,
….For the summer, winter, fall;
Yell till all the world knows poets
….Are the greatest frauds of all!

(Ella Higginson)