Spring, now dressed in all her feral charm, has woken
daffodils, which lay hid’n in the sodden earth, to
repose upon the green velour of mossy banks
amid bluebells, who hang their pretty heads for to
woo the busy bees whose flight through the perfumed air
delivers the payload of their pollened legs to
each corolla, which, in winning her attention
enticed the bee with nectar sweet her work to do.
Long may this work go on, though spring it is too short,
yet when summer comes, and then the harvest time, will
another winter yield again to feral charm?
Glad may she now be on her dodecanal day!