Marjorie Allen Seiffert

I STILL shall love the spring when I am old.

The whisper of April rain

Through grey-green days, upon my window-pane,

Shall speak as now of mornings bright and fine—

The days of gold,

When sticky buds, bursting with leafy wonder,

Turn every one into a gay cockade,

Worn tilted up or tilted under

Those twisty April branches, bare of shade.

Though every April night is a green frame

For lovers, they but fit the old design

Earth never has outworn;

And without envy I shall say,

Nodding my head, “It used to be the same

In my own day!”