Coquette

Spring is a flirt.  Unexpectedly gleaming
Over the shoulder of some far blue hill.
We glimpse the blue eyes of her, smiling and beaming,
We hold out our hands to her, all of a thrill.
A bloom in her lips, for a moment she lingers
Pouf! And she's gone with a flick of her skirt.
And Winter once more, with his icy-cold fingers,
Seizes us, freezes us. Spring is a flirt.

Spring is a minx. On the far forest ranges
Tip-toe one morning, all winsomely coy,
Her lover beholds her, and straightaway he changes
His dolerous drone to a paean of joy:
'Come to me sweetheart! - so long have I waited.'
She blows him a kiss as she shamelessly winks;
Then - Pouf! She is off. And the storm, unaabated,
Rocks him and mocks him. Ah, Spring is a minx.
  
Spring is a prude. On the city man reckoning
Profits and prices in some chill retreat.
She peeps thro' the window with scandalous beckoning
Luring him out to the sun-spangled street.
He smiles. Then she falls to a frowning and pouting:
'We're not introduced, sir! You dare be so rude?'
Then sudden around him the rough winds are shouting
Reproofs, and she vanishes. Spring is a prude.

Spring is a lade. For we knows every trick of it,
Every artifice, every wile:
Advancing, refusing, until we fall sick of it
Sick with the longing, athirst for her smile.
Coyly she calls us from out or a cover          
Aglow with her promise. Delectable maid!
'Not yet!' - She evades us - 'Ah, not yet, my lover!
Love thrives with languishing.'  Spring is a lade.