| Oh what a day! all yellow and gray, And so dark, so dreary, so foggy and thick, That if I should meet In the street My sweet— I might pass her by! Risk that? Not I! Take me home out of danger then! Quick, feet, quick. |
Not Summer’s crown of scent the red rose weaves
Nor hawthorn blossom over bloom-strewn grass,
Nor violet’s whisper when the children pass,
Nor lilac perfume in the soft May eves,
Nor new-mown hay, crisp scent of yellow sheaves,
Nor any scent that Spring-time can amass
And Summer squander, such a magic has