Wise men declare that seasons cling
   Immutably to their due date:
That summer, autumn, winter, spring,
Unhurried and unvarying,
   Are fixed by arbitrary fate.
Laws do not change, they gravely state,
   And vow no vagrant breeze may bring
   The vernal maiden hastening.
Yet, 'spite of all they've said of late,
   I think we'll have an early spring.

For I, that unconsidered thing
   A rhymer weaving little lays
To suit the times, have seen the swing
Of cosmic orbits altering
   To please some godling as he plays.
And, as I go my foolish ways,
   I read the tale that small birds bring
Out of that elfland where new days
Await their birth.  All nature says,
   "I think we'll have an early spring."

With promise of quick blossoming
   Fresh buds wax fat upon the bough,
While wren and robin, well awing,
Are all in urgent haste to bring
   Their home together.  And I trow
That all those little earth-sounds now,
   That tell of change, are whispering.
I can't tell why I know; but vow
I know I know and -- Anyhow
   I think we'll have an early spring.

And here is proof past questioning:
   Prophetic'ly the rhyming seer
Knows, when of love his heart would sing.
Time draws earth to the burgeoning
   And even I, despite the fear
Of arteries hardening year by year,
   Am moved to write some dainty thing
To Ethel's eyes; else pen a dear
Daft sonnet to Selina's ear,
   I know we'll have an early spring. 

"Den"
Herald, 25 July 1934, p6