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.