Poet, sing me a song to-day !
But the world grows old and my hair is gray.
Ah no! there are birds on the lilac bushes
And a snow-drop out of the wet earth pushes.
Two chattering robins are planning a marriage,
And see! there's a baby all pink in its carriage!
And the sun is wiping the clouds from his brow,
And who can look back when it's always now?
Oh, what is the use of a poet, say,
If he will not sing me a song to-day?