THE Spring was late in coming, so, Sweet bird, your songs are late: Have you a certain number, then, Of verses to create? If late to start means late to end, You comfort me, sweet friend. It was the summer of my life Ere I began to sing: Will winter be my summer, then, As summer was my spring? No matter how things change their hue, We'll sing our number through. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: AMOS SIBLEY by EDGAR LEE MASTERS A VOICE FROM THE SWEAT-SHOPS (A HYMN WITH RESPONSES) by LOUIS UNTERMEYER MEN WHO MARCH AWAY' (SONG OF THE SOLDIERS) by THOMAS HARDY EPIGRAM by DECIMUS MAGNUS AUSONIUS THE LINE MEN by WILLIAM ROSE BENET |