The Spring

There comes spring, melting the distances away;

Life presses on, dreary as I myself maim.

The scent of flowers is what I shall tame,

All for my invisible valentine, whom I await.

In the morning coldness I swirl and sway!

Tomorrow will all the flowers smell the same;

Tomorrow will all the roses have no name,

In our whirling vision, unrecognizable shall they stay.

I had the wishful prophecy, almost wistful,

Of vines tangling on blue banisters,

Of morning glories glistening with divine.

But today the young dawn is bashful,

Today will she not shine her rose red fingers.

Today the vines forget how to intertwine.