All brag of thy beauties is bosh;
When the songs of thy singers are sifted,
They simply won’t wash.
* * * * *
What lunatic lune, what vain vision,
Thy laureate, Springtide, may move
To sing thee—oh, bitter derision!—
As season of laughter and love?
You make a man mad beyond measure,
O Spring, and thy lauders like thee: