*

A fast flowing river tarrys for no man.

Not least, when he moves at snails pace.

Nor even, if he indulges a little leap-frog!

*

It is almost impossible to translate tempo from one system to another.

It acts like a signature, this metabolism of each seed-race.

If British, one longs for French panache.

If German, for Italian gusto!

*

Oh, for the feet of Zephyr!

That we could gallop on the breeze,

and out-run all that is ponderous and antique.

That fustiness of thought which clings,

like old cobwebs in every nook,

and cranny of our mind.

*

We anticipate…

Spring.