"YES, Spring has come," the grocer said,
And tied a final knot of string,
Rang up the change and becked his head,
Elated at the breath of Spring.
"Yes, Spring has come," the poet said,
And poured his ecstasy in rhymes,
Which eager, homesick exiles read
Long winter-locked in frozen climes.
Perhaps the grocer's way was best,
If joy can better be, or worse:
He saved his rapture unexpressed,
The poet spent his for a verse.