True Love

When each returning spring I see
With all its budding greenery–
When flowers fair
Perfume the air,
I whisper, “Surely this must be
The loveliest time of year for me.”

But when October comes in sight
And all the trees are blushing bright
And goldenrod
And asters nod,
And the deep blue, peaceful sky’s above,
I know that autumn’s my true love.

September 28, 1941

Life and My Scrapbook

Life and my scrapbook
Are made up haphazardly:
The smiles and the tears
Lie so close together
That at times the division line
Is almost indistinguishable.
Births and deaths and weddings,
Words of wisdom,
Bits of inanity,
Are so intermingled
It is quite impossible
To retain one mood for long–
Either sadness or levity.
That’s why they interest me–
Life and my scrapbook.

September 22, 1940

The Last Butterfly

Poets have bemoaned your fate,
Missing the joy you radiate.
“Poor, poor butterfly,” they say,
“She can’t live another day.”

All their sympathy is lost
On one who has no fear of frost,
In the warm and fragrant haze
Of these Indian Summer days.

Pay no heed to those who weep;
Give no thought to winter’s sleep
As you gaily flutter by,
Happy little butterfly.

November 12, 1939