In days I hope won't leave my past, like sorrow after mourning,
'Lest angels bring them back to me at night when I am scorching,
With fevered dreams of love and songs at Summer's own expense;
And Winter's palm to chill my nerves and bring me common sense.
But Spring has no good place for such as beauty sweeps the air;
Be rid of snow and celebrate, for kisses must be shared.
Upon a time I flew with wings, flew right to Fall's front door
With whispered tales of a thousand seasons
And wished for a thousand more.
