I write unseasonable rhyme for you.

The time for poetry is when the figs

Are falling-ripe; and arch the supple twigs
Like lovers' backs. But even if I grew
Around you, vine-like, I'd not blossom now
Or in a hundred years; I am so young,
And others' words trip strangely on my tongue,
And I revolt against their fusty vows.
As foolish children of the modern age,
We are too wise and cynical to – but
I will avoid the word; I cannot gauge
Its usefulness as yet. But here is what
Impels my rhyme: though wise, I still remember
Your foolish gift -- primroses in December.