 | THE LOVER TO HIS LASS. | |
 | Dearest,the Winter is here! “It will be sad,” so you said, “When no green leaves overhead Shadow the paths where we tread!” I said “It still will be dear If we still meet, O my sweet!” See how the seasons are kind! See this December forget How to be weary and wet! Hardly our June I regret, Winter so comely I find Since you are here, O my dear! Sweetheart, I sometimes believe, Love, not the sun, makes us glad; Even the mists were not sad If your soft hand-clasp I had. Hearts sing, though skies mourn and grieve, All weather’s fair If you’re there! Someday a home there shall be, Love shall be sun of it, sweet! Joy shall be full and complete— Sound of small voices and feet; While, like the sunshine, for me, You light up life— You—my wife! | |
| BEFORE PARTING. | |
| surely is the hour come for farewell, Now, with the lessened light and darkened days. Who now would tread the wild hill’s pathless ways? We found so fair when Spring and Summer’s spell Made blind our hearts this parting to foretell. Yet why, while wan and wintry sunlight stays On perished gold of Autumn fields, delays Your heart to speak, while both our hearts rebel? Together we have gathered through the year All that the year could give us of its best, Is it not meet our parting should be here, Now in the season drear of death and rest? Yet since together we its joys have known How shall each meet the strange New Year alone. Caris Brooke. |
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