As if his path all glory were,
Midst bright fields rich in daisies.
But now he seems to walk on clouds
With heavy plunging paces,
And squirts, as from a watering-pot,
Rain-drizzle in our faces.
Young Spring, Young Spring, Young Spring!
You’re grown a freakish fellow,
For now you smile, and now you weep,—
John!—bring me my umbrella.