Classic Poem

Winter's turned his cold and stony
Countenance the other way;
Bathing has begun at Coney;
Blow the zephyrs down the bay.

Cattle seek again the pasture,
Life no longer is congealed;
Spring approaches; come and cast your
Eye upon the verdant field.

Venus—she of Cytherea—
Leads the dance beneath the moon,
And the Graces tread in glee a
Syncopated rigadoon.

“Say it with myrtle!” be your motto;
Buy a nobby vernal lid.
Pray to Faunus in the grotto,
Kill for him a lamb or kid.

Be you owner of a fortune
Or as poor in kale as I'm,
Death (the Reaper) will importune
You, and get you in your time.

Say “Farewell”—ere Pluto call for
You to bear you to his shades—
“Lycidas, whom the flappers fall for
(Not to say the Roman blades).”

Winter's turned his cold and stony
Countenance the other way;
Bathing has begun at Coney;
Blow the zephyrs down the bay.

Cattle seek again the pasture,
Life no longer is congealed;
Spring approaches; come and cast your
Eye upon the verdant field.

Venus—she of Cytherea—
Leads the dance beneath the moon,
And the Graces tread in glee a
Syncopated rigadoon.

“Say it with myrtle!” be your motto;
Buy a nobby vernal lid.
Pray to Faunus in the grotto,
Kill for him a lamb or kid.

Be you owner of a fortune
Or as poor in kale as I'm,
Death (the Reaper) will importune
You, and get you in your time.

Say “Farewell”—ere Pluto call for
You to bear you to his shades—
“Lycidas, whom the flappers fall for
(Not to say the Roman blades).”