Love's Calendar
By Madison Julius Cawein
The spring may come in her pomp and splendor,
And Summer follow with rain and rose,
Or Fall lead in that old offender,
Winter, close-huddled up in snows:
Ever a-South the Love-wind blows
Into the heart, like a vane a-sway
From face to face of the girls it knows
But which is the fairest it 's hard to say.
If Lydia smile or Maud look tender,
Straight in your bosom the gladness glows;
But scarce at her side are you all surrender,
When Gertrude sings where the garden grows:
And your heart is a-bloom mid the blossoming rows,
For her hand to gather and toss away,
Or wear on her breast, as her fancy goes,
But which is the fairest it 's hard to say.
Let Helen pass, as a sapling slender,
Her cheek a berry, her mouth a rose,
Or Blanche or Laura to each you render
The worship due to the charms she shows:
But Ruth's a poem when these are prose;
Low at her feet your life you lay;
All of devotion to her it owes,
But which is the fairest it 's hard to say.
How can a man of his heart dispose
When Bess and Clara, and Kate and May
In form and feature no flaw disclose,
And which is the fairest it 's hard to say.