61
We saw the stars, while still the night was young,
Like golden fruit among the leaves that hung—
We climbed the tree to reach them—and, behold!
We have not touched them yet—and we are old.
Like golden fruit among the leaves that hung—
We climbed the tree to reach them—and, behold!
We have not touched them yet—and we are old.
"Cuckoo!" the call came through the meadow ways,
And "hark!" they cried, "the joy-note, Spring again!"
But we—we only heard the April rain,
And cuckoo-calls that came from other days.
And "hark!" they cried, "the joy-note, Spring again!"
But we—we only heard the April rain,
And cuckoo-calls that came from other days.
The rose is picked—and still you bid me linger—
What mean your whispers, and the blush between?
"Only to take this thorn out of your finger?"
That only—? Is there nothing else you mean?
What mean your whispers, and the blush between?
"Only to take this thorn out of your finger?"
That only—? Is there nothing else you mean?
