Classic Poem

Bring on the spring—I am wearied of winter;
Come, O you summer—I sicken of cold.
Set up my metrical matter, O printer!
(Century 10-point, or Cheltenham bold.)

Yearn I diurnally now for the gentle
Ray of the May-day's inspiriting sun;
Long I for song and the sweet sentimental
Talk as I walk with a Definite One.

Go away, snow, I am wearied, I tell you—
Ill of the chill that has tarried too long!
Sprint away, winter, I long to farewell you—
Hey! for the May and the season of song!

Down with a town that is windy and sloppy!
Up with the cup that is symbol of spring!
Ho! for the poems we writers of copy
Make for the sake of the sound of the thing!