MATING

The bliss of the wind in the redbud ringing!

What shall we do with the April days!

Kingcups soon will be up and swinging —

What shall we do with May's!

The cardinal flings, “They are made for mating!”

Out on the bough he flutters, a flame.

Thrush-flutes echo, “For mating's elating!

Love is its other name!”

They know! know it! but better, oh, better,

Dearest, than ever a bird in Spring,

Know we to make each moment debtor

Unto love's burgeoning!