29
Where grief and gladness touch and go,
Like storms in April's overflow.
Your face is to the glooming grove,
Where 'twixt the boughs I come in haste—
Thanks, thanks for that confession, love!
Caress unconscious, wordless, chaste—
You know you would not own it true,
Though fifty times I asked it you,
That 'tis for me, for me you wait,
So careless sitting on the gate,
So petulant, so half-afraid,
My little February maid!
Like storms in April's overflow.
Your face is to the glooming grove,
Where 'twixt the boughs I come in haste—
Thanks, thanks for that confession, love!
Caress unconscious, wordless, chaste—
You know you would not own it true,
Though fifty times I asked it you,
That 'tis for me, for me you wait,
So careless sitting on the gate,
So petulant, so half-afraid,
My little February maid!
Deep in the dingles at their ease
The blackbirds whistle, round and clear;
High up, among the naked trees,
Those sweet wood-pigeons do you hear?
The very rooks the elm trees bear,
Of courting matters gravely prate;
In Spring time, all the birds of air
Go out to woo a little mate.
The blackbirds whistle, round and clear;
High up, among the naked trees,
Those sweet wood-pigeons do you hear?
The very rooks the elm trees bear,
Of courting matters gravely prate;
In Spring time, all the birds of air
Go out to woo a little mate.
