Part 5 (1/2)

Your voice--and the thundering skies Tremble and cease to appall me-- Coward no longer, I rise Spurred for what battles may call me.

Your arms--and my purpose grows strong; Your lips--and high pa.s.sions complete me...

For your love, it is armor and Song-- And where is the thing to defeat me!

SPRING ON BROADWAY

Make way for Spring-- Spring that's a stranger in the city, Spring that's a truant in the town.

Make way for Spring, for she has no pity And she will tear your barriers down-- Make way for Spring!

See from her hidden valleys, With mirth that never palls, She comes with songs and sallies, With bells and magic calls, And dances down your alleys, And whispers through your walls.

You who never once have missed her In your town of pomp and pride Now in vain you will resist her-- You will feel her at your side; Even in the smallest street, Even in the densest throng, She will follow at your feet, She will walk with you along.

She will stop you as you start Here and there, and growing bolder, She will touch you on the shoulder, She will clutch you at the heart...

Merchant, you who drink your mead From a golden cup, Shut your ears, and do not heed; Look not up.

Beware--for she is light as air, And her charm will work confusion; Spring is but an old delusion And a snare....

Merchant, you who drink your mead While the thirsty die, Shut your eyes, and do not heed-- Pa.s.s her by.

Maiden with the nun-like eyes Do not pause to greet her; Spring is far too wild and wise-- Do not meet her.

Do not listen while she tells Her persuasive lures and spells; Do not learn her secrets, lest She should plant them in your breast; Whisper things to shame and shock you, Make your heart beat fast--and mock you; Send you dreams that rob your rest...

Maiden with the nun-like eyes Spring is far too wild and wise.

And you, my friend, with hasty stride Think you to escape her; Ah, like fire touching paper, She will burn into your side.

She will rouse you once again; She will sway you, till you follow Like the smallest singing swallow In her train.

Put irons on your feet, my friend, And chain your soul with golden weights, Lest she should move you in the end And lead you past the city gates; And make you frolic with the wind; And play a thousand G.o.dlike parts; And sing--until within you starts A pity for the senseless blind, The deaf, the dumb and all their kind Whose eager, aimless footsteps wind Forever to the frantic marts, Through every mad and breathless street.., My friend, put irons on your feet.

So--and that is right, my friend; Do not yield.

Send her on her way, and end All her follies; let her spend Her reckless days and nights concealed In wood and field......

The paths beyond the town are clear; These skies are wan-- Bid her begone.

What is she doing here?

What is she doing here--and why?

The city is no place for Spring.

What can she have; what can she bring That you would care to buy.

Her songs? Alas, you do not sing.

Her smiles? You have no time to try.

Her wings? You do not care to fly-- Spring has not fas.h.i.+oned anything To tempt your jaded eye.