On a chill day he reads old April letters, Extracting from the vernal lines the warmth
That still may linger in an envelope.
Scribblers in spring - ah, the dear optimists!
With ink the color of a bluebird's egg,
They wrote such jonquil mirth, such lilac hope
That even now the fragrance pirouettes
(A sweet performance he could once command)
And laughter leaps along the paragraphs
Ending "As Ever" in his wintry hand.