The Spring is gone.  I have not seen
   Its fairies tripping on the Block,
Arcadians in grey and green,
   The happy flapper in a frock
So dainty that the breezes fret
It like the smoke of cigarette.


I’ve seen no pixies of the pave
   The season deck with flower and plume;
No slim, entrancing elves that wave
   Their gossamers like wattle bloom;
But only staid, trim maids arrayed
In Autumn costumes tailor-made.


Not like a garden poppy strewn
   And scented as an Eden fair
Has been the Block at afternoon.
   So Spring came not to me this year.
Curse on the greedy profiteer
Who made the dear ones all too dear!