In many country places Cootamundra wattles are already in full bloom, narcissus and rhododendron are putting forth blossoms, and brief flashes of warming sunlight tempt the birds to sing. But the cold and rain predominate.

Spring is a flirt.  Unexpectedly gleaming
   Over the shoulder of some far blue hill.
We glimpse the blue eyes of her, smiling and beaming,
   We hold out our hands to her, all of a thrill.
A bloom in her lips, for a moment she lingers --
   Pouf! And she's gone with a flick of her skirt.
And Winter once more, with his icy-cold fingers,
   Seizes us, freezes us. Spring is a flirt.
 
Spring is a minx. On the far forest ranges
   Tip-toe one morning, all winsomely coy,
Her lover beholds her, and straightaway he changes
   His dolerous drone to a paean of joy:
"Come to me sweetheart! -- so long have I waited."
   She blows him a kiss as she shamelessly winks;
Then -- Pouf! She is off. And the storm, unaabated,
   Rocks him and mocks him. Ah, Spring is a minx.
  
Spring is a prude. On the city man reckoning
   Profits and prices in some chill retreat.
She peeps thro' the window with scandalous beckoning
   Luring him out to the sun-spangled street.
He smiles. Then she falls to a frowning and pouting:
   "We're not introduced, sir! You dare be so rude?"
Then sudden around him the rough winds are shouting
   Reproofs, and she vanishes. Spring is a prude.
 
Spring is a lade. For we knows every trick of it,
   Every artifice, every wile:
Advancing, refusing, until we fall sick of it --
   Sick with the longing, athirst for her smile.
Coyly she calls us from out or a cover            ((?))
   Aglow with her promise. Delectable maid!
"Not yet!" -- She evades us -- "Ah, not yet, my lover!
   Love thrives with languishing."  Spring is a lade.

"Den"
Herald, 19 July 1935, p6