APRIL.
Who calls the Autumn season drear?
It was in Autumn that we met,
When under foot dead leaves lay wet
In the black London gardens, dear.
The fog was yellow everywhere,
And very thick in Finsbury Square,
Where in those days we used to meet.
I used to buy you violets sweet
From flower-girls down by Moorgate Street.
'Twas Autumn then—can we forget?—
When first we met.
Who says that Spring is dear and fair?
It is in Spring-time that we part,
And weary heart from weary heart
Turns, as the birds begin to pair.
The sun shines on the golden dome,
The primroses in baskets come,
With daffodils in sheaves, to cheer
The town with dreams of the crownèd year.
We're both polite and insincere:
Though neither says it, yet—at heart—
We mean to part.