April come she will

When streams are ripe and swelled with rain;

May, she will stay,

Resting in my arms again.

June, she'll change her tune,

In restless walks she'll prowl the night;

July, she will fly

And give no warning to her flight.

August, die she must,

The autumn winds blow chilly and cold;

September I'll remember

A love once new has now grown old.

                     -Paul Simon