_No parking here! No parking here! They said to Spring: No parking here!_ Spring came on as she always does, Laid her hand on the yellow forsythia,-- Little boys turned in their sleep and smiled, Dreaming of marbles, dreaming of agates; Little girls leapt from their beds to see Spring come by with her painted wagons, Colored wagons creaking with wonder-- Laid her hand on the robin’s throat; When up comes you-know-who, my dear, You-know-who in a fine blue coat, And says to Spring: No parking here! _No parking here! No parking here! Move on! Move on! No parking here!_ Come walk with me in the city gardens. (Better keep an eye out for you-know-who) Did ever you see such a sickly showing?-- Middle of June, and nothing growing; The gardeners peer and scratch their heads And drop their sweat on the tulip-beds, But not a blade thrusts through. _Come, move on! Don’t you know how to walk? No parking here! And no back-talk!_ Oh, well--hell, it’s all for the best. She certainly made a lot of clutter, Dropping petals under the trees, Taking your mind off your bread and butter. Anyhow, it’s nothing to me. I can remember, and so can you. (Though we’d better watch out for you-know-who, When we sit around remembering Spring). We shall hardly notice in a year or two. You can get accustomed to anything. MEMORY OF CAPE COD The wind in the ash-tree sounds like surf on the shore at Truro. I will shut my eyes . . . hush, be still with your silly bleating, sheep on Shillingstone Hill . . . _They said: Come along! They said: Leave your_ _pebbles on the sand and come along, it’s long after_ _sunset!_ _The mosquitoes will be thick in the pine-woods along_ _by Long Nook, the wind’s died down!_ _They said: Leave your pebbles on the sand, and your_ _shells, too, and come along, we’ll find you another_ _beach like the beach at Truro._ Let me listen to wind in the ash ... it sounds like surf on the shore. PART FOUR SONNETS IV-I WHEN YOU, THAT AT THIS MOMENT When you, that at this moment are to me Dearer than words on paper, shall depart, And be no more the warder of my heart, Whereof again myself shall hold the key; And be no more--what now you seem to be-- The sun, from which all excellences start In a round nimbus, nor a broken dart Of moonlight, even, splintered on the sea; I shall remember only of this hour-- And weep somewhat, as now you see me weep-- The pathos of your love, that, like a flower, Fearful of death yet amorous of sleep, Droops for a moment and beholds, dismayed, The wind whereon its petals shall be laid. IV-II THAT LOVE AT LENGTH SHOULD FIND