There, pillowed ‘neath the wooing wind
Fair spring has spread her floral dress
And we, hungry for her caress
Leave winter-weary woes behind
The dreamer of a thousand dreams
Is enticed to forsake his lust
Of garbled this and that; this dust
Is sweeter than thought’s phantom streams
The tyrant that growled grimly by
Our door in vexatious dissent
Has left his shivering lament
To amble from a bluer sky
And dimly now we might recall
The cut-throat gale and ice-travail
But we are drunk on perfumed ale
Of apple-bloom and lilac-shawl
While pillowed on a wooing cot
Of grass-whisper ‘neath new-born leaf
The weariness of winter-grief
Slumbers in cradles long-forgot
© Janet Martin
