Keep tune! Keep time!
Burst ice and rime
In equinoctial splendour!
Up sprang Winter and stared, with his hand over his brows.
Down below in the valley stood the Prince of Spring, young and straight, in his green garb, with the lute slung over his shoulder. His long hair flowed in the wind, his face was soft and round, his mouth was ever smiling, his eyes were dreamy and moist.
“You come too soon!” shouted Winter.
But Spring bowed low and replied:
“I come by our appointment.”
“You come too soon!” shouted Winter again. “I am not nearly done. I have a thousand bags full of snow and my gales are just as strong and biting as they were in January.”
“That is your affair, not mine,” said Spring, calmly. “Your time is past now, and my sway is beginning. Withdraw in peace to your mountains.”