Coquette

Spring is a flirt.  Unexpectedly gleaming
   Over the shoulder of some far blue hill.
We glimpse the blue eyes of her, smiling and beaming,
   We hold out our hands to her, all of a thrill.
A bloom in her lips, for a moment she lingers --
   Pouf! And she's gone with a flick of her skirt.
And Winter once more, with his icy-cold fingers,
   Seizes us, freezes us. Spring is a flirt.
 
Spring is a minx. On the far forest ranges
   Tip-toe one morning, all winsomely coy,
Her lover beholds her, and straightaway he changes
   His dolerous drone to a paean of joy:
"Come to me sweetheart! -- so long have I waited."
   She blows him a kiss as she shamelessly winks;
Then -- Pouf! She is off. And the storm, unaabated,
   Rocks him and mocks him. Ah, Spring is a minx.
  
Spring is a prude. On the city man reckoning
   Profits and prices in some chill retreat.
She peeps thro' the window with scandalous beckoning
   Luring him out to the sun-spangled street.
He smiles. Then she falls to a frowning and pouting:
   "We're not introduced, sir! You dare be so rude?"
Then sudden around him the rough winds are shouting
   Reproofs, and she vanishes. Spring is a prude.
 
Spring is a lade. For we knows every trick of it,
   Every artifice, every wile:
Advancing, refusing, until we fall sick of it --
   Sick with the longing, athirst for her smile.
Coyly she calls us from out or a cover            ((?))
   Aglow with her promise. Delectable maid!
"Not yet!" -- She evades us -- "Ah, not yet, my lover!
   Love thrives with languishing."  Spring is a lade.