Oh, tell me,—has the winter-plum
Yet blossomed o’er the window frame?
And this:—
You ask when I’m coming: alas! not just yet ...
How the rain filled the pools on that night when we met!
Oh, when shall we ever snuff candles again,
And recall the glad hours of that evening of rain?
—What is the special charm of those? But they haunt me.—Good night,
R. H.