Why Spring Fell Flat

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.

Ive 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!

Edward

Edward Dyson was a versatile Australian writer and poet known for his prose and poetry that vividly depicted the lives and experiences of miners and working-class people in Australia. Born on March 4, 1865, in Ballarat, Victoria, Dyson worked in various manual labor roles in the mining industry before turning to writing. His works often drew from his firsthand experiences and offered a unique perspective on the struggles and triumphs of everyday Australians. Dyson passed away on August 22, 1931.

Edward

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English

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Intra Muros

The sunbeams, lost for half a year,
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For dry northwesters cold and clear,
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And first the snowdrop's bells are seen,
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The tulip's horn of dusky green,
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The golden-chaliced crocus burns;
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The willow's whistling lashes, wrung
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With sallow leaflets lightly strung,
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The elms have robed their slender spray
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Penny Wise, Pound Poor

    Fall was a tubercular cousin
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    sparse hair,
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    2
    Night air was damaging
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    3
    Fall was...
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    Penny wise, pound poor
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Summer

Winter is cold-hearted
    Spring is yea and nay,
Autumn is a weather-cock
    Blown every way:
Summer days for me
When every leaf is on its tree;

When Robin's not a beggar,
    And Jenny Wren's a bride,
And larks hang singing, singing, singing,
    Over the wheat-fields wide,
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And the pendulum spider
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And blue-black beetles transact business,
    And gnats fly in a host,
And furry caterpillars hasten
    That no time be lost,
And moths grow fat and thrive,
And ladybirds arrive.

Before green apples blush,
    Before green nuts embrown,
Why, one day in the country
    Is worth a month in town;
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The End Of The Summer

The birds laugh loud and long together
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At the first cool breath of autumn weather.
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When the deep calm sea and the deep sky over
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As a blue-eyed maid and her blue-eyed lover
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Oh! this is the time when careful spying
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You find when the butterflies plan for flying
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The shy little sumacs, in lonely places,
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Spring

        To what purpose, April, do you return again?
        Beauty is not enough.
        You can no longer quiet me with the redness
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        I know what I know.
        The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
        The spikes of the crocus.
        The smell of the earth is good.
        It is apparent that there is no death.
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Spring In Town.

The country ever has a lagging Spring,
Waiting for May to call its violets forth,
And June its roses, showers and sunshine bring,
Slowly, the deepening verdure o'er the earth;
To put their foliage out, the woods are slack,
And one by one the singing-birds come back.

Within the city's bounds the time of flowers
Comes earlier. Let a mild and sunny day,
Such as full often, for a few bright hours,
Breathes through the sky of March the airs of May,
Shine on our roofs and chase the wintry gloom,
And lo! our borders glow with sudden bloom.

For the wide sidewalks of Broadway are then
Gorgeous as are a rivulet's banks in June,
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Slides soft away beneath the sunny noon,
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