The Infant Earth one April day
(The first of April—so they say),
When toddling on her usual round,
Spied in her path upon the ground
A dainty little garland ring
Of violets—and that was Spring.
She caught the pretty wreath of Spring
And all the birds began to sing,
But when she thought to hold it tight
’Twas rudely jerked from out her sight;
And while she looked for it in vain
The birds all flew away again.
Alas! The flowering wreath of Spring
Was fastened to a silken string,
And Time, the urchin, laughed for glee
(He held the other end you see).
And that was long ago, they say,
When Time was young and Earth was gay.
Now Earth is old and Time is lame,
Yet still they play the same old game:
Old Earth still reaches out for Spring,
And Time—well—Time still holds the string.