My heart was more attuned the winter through ,
I think, to what of Nature I could find:
The sun-touched snow that glinted red and blue;
The bird or two pretending not to mind
The icy cold. But now in spite of spring
With opened buds and earthy smell of wood
And flowered field, and birds of fiery wing,
I fail to find the thrill I know I should.
This season, all in all, is better, far–
But has too much of good for our poor minds;
And so it is with you, my dear. You are
Quite like a perfect April day that blinds
The eye, so used is it to life’s Cook Tours
It cannot grasp such loveliness as yours.
by Ray Romine Wednesday, April 11, 1945
