Spring and Other Things
O spring, O spring,
You wonderful thing!
O spring, O spring, O spring!
O spring, O spring,
When the birdies sing
I feel like a king,
O spring!
Hooray for the spring! What a glorious feeling!
All the little lambs on the hillsides squealing!
Tighten up your braces! Tuck in your shirt!
All the little green things growing in the dirt!
Spring is in the air;
Birds are flying north;
And though trees are bare,
Now they’re putting forth
Leaves. The fields are green.
Sun is getting higher.
Monday Mr. Bean
Put out the furnace fire.
Birds are building nests;
In the swamp are peepers;
Men discard their vests;
Eggs are getting cheaper.
When I set out upon this tour,
I thought the skies would be much bluer.
When I set out upon this tramp,
How could I know ’twould be so damp?
When I set out on this excursion,
I did not think it meant submersion.
When I set out upon this trip
I should have started in a ship.
O Pole, O Pole, O glorious Pole!
To you I sing this song,
Where bedtime comes but once a year,
Since the nights are six months long.
Yes, the nights are six months long, my dears,
And the days are the same, you see,
So breakfast and supper each last a week,
And dinner sometimes three.
Then there’s tea and lunch, and we sometimes munch
Occasional snacks between—
Such mountains of candies and cakes and pies
Have never before been seen.
Let the wild winds howl about the Pole,
Let the snowflakes swirl and swoop;
We’re snug and warm and safe from harm
And they’re bringing in the soup.
We’ll sit at the table as long as we’re able,
We’ll rise and stretch, and then,
Since there’s nothing to do but gobble and chew,
We’ll sit right down again.
We’ll tuck our napkins under our chins
To keep our waistcoats neat,
And then we’ll eat and eat and eat
And eat and eat and eat
Let others sing of fall and spring,
Of love and dove, of eyes and sighs;
My song is not of anything;
It tells no whats, it gives no whys.
And is it sad? Or is it gay?
I do not know. I cannot say.
It seeks no meaning to convey,
It has no subject, point or plot.
It must mean something, you will say—
But I assure you it does not.
No scowls across my features creep,
No tears bedew my handkerchief;
I do not try to make you weep,
To moan with anguish, sob with grief.
Contrariwise, no smiles contort
My face; I wish to give no cause
For anyone to roar and snort
With uncontrollable guffaws.
And if you ask me: is this so?
I cannot say. I do not know.
