Classic Poem

In the spring a young man's fancy
Lightly turns—you know the thing.
Tennyson's extravagancy,
“In the spring—”

Gay the garlands that I fling
In my wild exuberancy,
Happier I than any king.

And I print my petulancy,
Saddest when I have to sing.
Work's a thing I simply can't see
In the spring.