What fatal madness is in Spring?
What succor to our childish hopes?
We know what follows, what must fall,
and yet we rouse our hearts to dream,
and bask in pure abandon.

Then closest to our ancient instincts.
Rationality in flight, no more than glaze,
cannot compete with our true call,
the innate urge to plant and procreate.
We sing full-throated, lust, and sleep.

Then comes again the wrenching call,
of stark reality, and of death.
Our dream fades and is scarce recalled,
until the light again reclaims,
the darkness which berates our souls,
and makes our rationality a boon.

What fatal madness is in Spring?