Has been waiting, decked like Winter, with a nose-tip nearly blue;
Waiting, waiting for your coming. Sweet as bees in clover humming
Is the first sound of your footfall. Most spontaneous of passions
Is the love for you, you darling. You will bring the thrush and starling,
And the young leaves and the young lambs, and, what's better—
the Spring Fashions!!!
So no wonder that she greets you with effusion when she meets you.
Ah, Spring! 'tis not your lilacs, and your daffodils and stocks,
Or the tender leaves the trees on, that most moves Miss London Season,
'Tis the hope of "rippin'" frolics and the thought of "trotty" frocks.