From you have I been away since springtime,
When nice cool April, came and left with no whim, 
Had put feelings of youth in everything;
The players laughed and dipped from in their tins, 
Yet not the cracks of bats, not the nice
Flowers with their own individual smell,
Could make any summer's story worthy to tell,
Or from their field pick them where they grew. 
Nor did I wonder at the baseball's white,
Neither enjoy the colors of the glove,
They were not sweet, but their colors bright,
Drawn after you, your pattern sketched in love.
Yet it was winter still, and, you did call,
When spring time comes again, I say "Play Ball."