I’m never quite sure whether spring
Is a season about which to sing
In terms of starry dew-eyed rapture
Poets are alleged to capture,
Or whether, brushing veils aside,
I ought to pan its dismal side:
Its rain, its head-colds, and its wind;
Its recklessness undisciplined.
But whether you like spring or deplore it,
You cannot honestly ignore it!
by Ray Romine Saturday, September 15, 1951
