To see desire die and pulse grow faint.
My strong left hand clutching the field glasses
I wait for the last bird or plane to roar
Across my range of vision, distantly
And yet so clearly that the eye can shoot
And the heart bury it, this happy spring.
I'm happy that this spring
Presiding at my tennis court once more
I see bright balls in motion, flying forth
At the b;dding of such blithe antagonists
As I have summoned from our neighborhood.
Knowing this is a court of no appeal
Makes them, I warrant, keep their spirits up.
A game both gayer and more desperate
Was never yet conducted on man's lawn
Than that old game of mine, this happy spring.
I'm happy that this spring,
Tepid and blowing with irregular gusts,
Finds me propped in my garden chair, intact,
Save for the gangrene spreading through one thigh,
Which, being tended by my next of kin
With that same gentleness they've always shown
Towards every recent growth in father's garden
Will soon subside. Ah, gather round my knees
And glory in destruction, for I'm mortal
This spring, especially, this happy spring.
Francis Golffing
