Whose gold is scarce yet bursting from the beds the winds still parch?
After that six weeks cold snap, dear, of fast frozen pipe and tap, dear,
When back to barbarism and to bathlessness fate drove us,
And we sicklier grew, and surlier, if you'd come a leetle earlier,—
Well, let bygones now be bygones! But O Spring sweet! an you love us,
Come—at last, dear—à la Herrick, with such influence atmospheric
As will slay the Influenza; with such fragrance from your flowers,
As will knock Malaria silly; let your dear daffydown-dilly
From our bodies drive bacilli, and the blight from out our bowers.
Slay our Microbes, Spring, and bless us! Like a clinging Shirt of Nessus