Oliver Herford

“ Thus I heard the poet croon,
To the month of roses sweet,
His song with barometric feet.
Perfect days I own are rare—
All depends on how you fare.
Can a day be perfect to
The rose that has not sipped the dew? ”

“ Turns and plays the deuce with Spring.
Winter lingers at her gate;
Spring grows chilly and irate.
I'd go home if I were he—
It is just such girls as she
Make a fellow thank his stars
For the solace of cigars. ”

“ And fill the night with noise and smell.
The stars of Heaven look down, and say:
"So this is Independence Day!
Poor earth-born stars, it makes us sad
To see your fire work like mad
To make a Human Holiday. ”