I don't care to trade
With the bargain he made.
Just watch him to-day--
See him trying to play.
He's come back for blue skies.
But they're in a new guise--
Winter's here, all is gray,
The birds are away,
The meadows are brown,
The leaves lie aground,
And the gay brook that wound
With a swirling and whirling
Of waters, is furling
Its bosom in ice.
And he hasn't the price,
With all of his gold,
To buy what he sold.
He knows now the cost
Of the spring-time he lost,
Of the flowers he tossed
From his way,
And, say,
He'd pay
Any price if the day
Could be made not so gray.
_He can't play._

--HERBERT KAUFMAN. Used by permission of _Everybody's Magazine_.