‘Twas spring-time and hedges were all a-sway;
With snow of winter my fields were clad,
Darkly and drearily passed each day,
And next day and next day—
While all around
By others naught but spring-buds were found.
‘O foolish heart, were you ever glad?
She was going from you from the first,’ I said.
She turned to me her eager head,
Clutching at what my thoughts did say.”