I saw the hills. Upon them—O! so sweet—
Thick-banked stood trees like pink mist in the sun,
Aloud I cried:—Thank God! The Winter’s done!
XVI
We must be kinder to each other, Dear,
Than others are whose love by law is blest,
Slower to wound, cavil, think ill—grieve—lest
We break the iris band that binds us near!
We must be crueller to each other, Dear,
Than others are whose love by law is blest,