“Oh, here am I,” we heard her sing,—

And none had been awake to greet

The coming of the maiden Spring.

  But look, her violet eyes are wet With bright, unfallen, dewy tears; And in her song my fancy hears A note of sorrow trembling yet. Perhaps, beyond the town, she met Old Winter as he limped away To die forlorn, and let him lay His weary head upon her knee, And kissed his forehead with regret For one so gray and lonely,—see, Her eyes with tender tears are wet.

But look, her violet eyes are wet

With bright, unfallen, dewy tears;

And in her song my fancy hears

A note of sorrow trembling yet.

Perhaps, beyond the town, she met

Old Winter as he limped away

To die forlorn, and let him lay

His weary head upon her knee,

And kissed his forehead with regret

For one so gray and lonely,—see,

Her eyes with tender tears are wet.

 And so, by night, while we were all at rest, I think the coming sped the parting guest.

And so, by night, while we were all at rest,

I think the coming sped the parting guest.

1873.

 IF ALL THE SKIES

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