Is still a faint suggestion of late snow.{61}

{61}

So when your luncheon hour and mine comes round,

I will have gone beyond the edge of town.

{62}

Ingleside

THE road that goes to Ingleside

T

Can’t be described at all,

’Tis sweet beyond the telling

And the trees are paces tall.

Spring o’ year at Ingleside

Is pungent sweet of breath.

And for its rainfilled, tumbling streams

I’m homesick unto death.

Confusing flowers fill the wood

Like nodding plumes of flame.

The like of which one’s never seen

And no one knows the name.

The hills that look on Ingleside

 Prev. P 49/70 next