Song of Spring

Sometimes at night I think I dream,

Of daisies tossed by wind,

While weaved amongst the flowing hair,

That danced upon your skin.

I gathered up a blade of rye,

In spring all soft and green,

To taste the sweet and loving earth,

So fresh and cool and clean,

Where none I knew had ever trod,

In many a lonesome year,

But you and I were always there,

In all I see and hear.

The clover spoke with spicy scents,

A whispered promise gave;

Its auburn heads around us bobbed,

And gentle music played,

So I took your hand and led you down,

The trail my Papa made,

Through mossy wood and meadow mild,

In sun and subtle shade,

Where bluebirds trilled on Bois D’Arc boughs,

In praise for life and joy,

And you and I, we answered  back,

And laughed at such employ.

We stopped a while to trail our toes,

In water warm as blood,

That filled the brook I’d thought was dry,

And washed my feet of mud,

And there I found a penny lost,

A faded ’83,

To clasp and toss and smiling think,

I have no wish but thee.