The Season.
I know what calls the Devil from the pits.
With a thief's fingers there he slouches and sits.
I've seen him passing on a frenzied mare, bitter-eyed
on her haunches out to stare.
He rides her cruel and he rides her easy.
Come along spring, come along sun, come along field daisy.
Smell the foxy babies, smell the hunting dog.
The shes have whelped, the cocks and hens have lost their wits.
And cry, "Why," cry the spring peepers,
"Why," each little frog.
He rides her cruel and he rides her easy.
Come along spring, come along sun, come along field daisy.