The
treble time for life in throngs
To animate from
slumber long,
Of frost and gloom, to
softer state,
And leave the land a lively tomb,
Makes each of us a needy mate
Until
solsticial noon.
Come
March, the month by rain sustained,
When
sex itself is uncontained,
Your fruits a-heap in blooms of purse,
Your peaches moist,
too pale to reap,
Your vines, and yes, Your men
too versed
To
inhibition keep.
Come
June, the month by sun sustained,
When heat
defects desire claimed,
Your sex well had, your peaches plucked,
Your moisture lapped by every lad,
Your
passions past, your nipples sucked,
Your dull appeal a
fad:
I shall have my cool, my
dove,
For I shall have my
Love.