Spring is for lovers, so they say.
But I’ve preferred an autumn day
Ever since I was young like you,
I’ve never cared for cheerful May.
It does not make my heart untrue
To love’s ideals youths pursue,
Nor does it make my soul not keen
On budding life of all things new.
But I delight in seasoned brew,
Followed by bitter residue.
While you admire the break of dawn,
I treasure hours when they are few.
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