THE year has turned the corner, <br />Cold June is with the dead, <br />And Spring, the singing artist, <br />Is mixing gold and red. <br />The red is meant for roses, <br />Rich roses, brave and bold; <br />The gold is for the wattle — <br />'Tis delicate, pale gold. <br />The Sun, grown tired of exile, <br />Comes marching south again; <br />'Tis he that stays the west wind <br />That chills the hearts of men. <br />There shall be frond and feather, <br />Glad ways of greenery, <br />When Spring unveils her painting <br />For all the world to see. <br />Oh, red 'twill be and golden, <br />That canvas of the South: <br />* * * * * <br />The gold shall be a girl's hair, <br />The red shall be her mouth.<br /><br />Roderic Quinn<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-artist-36/
