Poems that you love

[Magpie]

On the Twelfth Day of Christmas, I Screamed!
                                        -  David Daiches

(A letter from his girl to a G.I. in Tokyo)

Now April's here, what ever can I do 
With those fantastic gifts I got from you?
Spring's in the air, but, honey, life is hard: 
The three French hens are picking in the yard, 
And the turtledove, the turtledove 
(One of them died) - 
Ah, love, my own true love, you have denied 
Me nothing the mails or the express could bring. 
But look: we're into spring; 
The calling birds are calling, calling; 
The pear tree's leaves are slowly falling; 
I sit here with those cackling geese 
And never know a moment's peace. 
My memories are mixed and hazy, 
The drumming drummers drive me crazy, 
The milking maids enjoy canasta, 
The lords are leaping ever faster, 
The pipers - God in Heaven knows 
I've more than had enough of those. 

My love, you do such wondrous things 
(Who else would think of five gold rings?) 
I know you send me all you can 
Of spoils of occupied Japan, 
But you remain on alien shore 
And waiting here is such a bore. 
My love, the lively lords are leaping: 
Some things will not improve with keeping. 

Now April's here, the weary days go by; 
I watch that wretched dove attempt to fly; 
The partridge smells; the geese are getting hoarse; 
My diction's growing positively coarse.
You must forgive me gestures of rejection - 
I'm crazed with all your tokens of affection. 
Enough's enough; next time be less romantic 
And don't send gifts that drive a lady frantic. 
Send me a postcard with a pretty view 
And I shall look at it and think of you.