Spring's face is wreathed in smiles. She had been driven Hither and thither at the surly will Of treacherous winds till her sweet heart was chill. Into her grasp the sceptre has been given...
It might have been so different a year To what has been; the summer's guileless play Not all a jest, comes back to me to-day In added sweetness, and provokes a tear....
But one short night between my Love and me! I watch the soft-shod dusk creep wistfully Through the slow-moving curtains, pausing by And shrouding with its spirit-fingers free...