Judy Collins Prothalamium
Come, all of you who are not satisfied
as rulers in a lone wallpapered room
full of mute birds and flowers that falsely bloom,
and closets choked with dreams that long ago died!
Come, let us sweep the old streets--like a bride;
sweep out the dead leaves with a relentless broom;
prepare for Spring, as if he were our groom
for whose light footstep eagerly we bide.
We'll sweep out the shadows, where the rats long fed;
sweep out our shame--and in its place we'll make
a bower for love, a splendid marriage-bed
fragrant with flowers aquiver for the Spring.
And when he comes, our murdered dreams shall wake;
and when he comes, all the mute birds shall sing,
and when he comes, all the mute birds shall sing.
