Springtime Poets

There is no pow’r beneath the sun

Can still a young man’s hand

From scrawling miles of rambling verse

When springtime fills the land.

Let him see bees or daffodils,

And poems fill his brain,

With bumbling meter and cliched rhyme

That no flesh can restrain.

You may as well reverse the clock

And return to winter dark,

Than staunch the prose that gushes forth

When once he hears the lark.

I do not write of birds or trees

Or sunshine or the dew,

But I cannot help but burst with song

When once I think of you.