PROMISE.
The first day came from the bitter north,
Was there ever so cold a spring!
But the sun shone out for an hour at noon,
And we heard the cuckoo sing.
The next day woke with a cheerless blast
And a sky that was gray with snow,
But we heard the corncrake tune his pipe
In the meadow down below.
The third day sobbed with a dismal rain,
The very trees looked numb,
But the swallows arrived on the old roof tree
And we knew that the summer would come.
THE MOUNTAIN MAID.
I heard the lark at break of day,
I heard the echoes ring;
A lonely maid, and blithe as they—
What could I do but sing?
But neither lark nor echoes stopped
To listen to my song,
And sometimes into silence dropped—
What could I do but long?
And then one stepping lightly past
Called me his singing dove;
With him to please, the days sped fast—
What could I do but love?