"No more snow," they say.

'We are finished with that part of day.

We are past that portion of year.

We are done with that hour of drear!"

 

"No more snow?" I say.

"We have past all pf the array

Of sprinkles of frigid fairy-dust?

Well, away! to the spring, if we must."

 

"No more ice!" They shout.

"No more slipping and falling about!

No moor slippery walkways and trecherous parkways, 

Or falling icicles, no doubt!"

 

"No more ice?" I wonder.

"No more glossed plates splitting asunder?

No more gliding and sliding on chrystalline glass?

No more moonbeams lighting upon her?"

 

"No more cold," they chant.

"Borealis is finished his rant!

The breeze is warm, and the trees, they bud,

the frozen ground is melting to mud!

 

"No more cold?" I ask.

"The Weatherman turns to a milder task?

It's time for spring to come at last

And over the world a green glow cast?

But do I really want it to come? Alas!

For the good spring may come and the good winter pass,

And always, always come again

The next time around, and then-what then?

For if you hold the opposite dear

Why, you'll just have to wait for the next year!"