J. Van Alstyne Weaver, Jr.

Spring—Fort Sheridan

PLACID breezes sauntering

Over a lake of glass,

Kissing the pouting elm-buds,

Patting the new grass;

Turquoise overhead,

Swimming May skies—

(“Trench-knives are top-hole

For gouging out their eyes!”)

Great bees, clover-laden,

Solemnly drone past;

All the fresh world shouts

Of spring come at last.

Bobolinks, meadowlarks

Bursting with May—

(“If you can’t pull the bayonet out,

Shoot the body away!”)