You are come, then, at last!
O my dear, is it you?
I can scarce think it true
I am holding you fast,
And sorrow is past.
AN INVITATION
Dear Ritchie, I am waiting for the signal word to fly,
And tell me that the visit which has suffered such belating
Is to be a thing of now, and no more of by-and-by.
Dear Ritchie, I am waiting.
The sea is at its bluest, and the Spring is new creating
The woods and dens we know of, and the fields rejoicing lie,
And the air is soft as summer, and the hedge-birds all are mating.
The Links are full of larks’ nests, and the larks possess the sky,
Like a choir of happy spirits, melodiously debating,
All is ready for your coming, dear Ritchie—yes, and I,
Dear Ritchie, I am waiting.
FICKLE SUMMER
Fickle Summer’s fled away,
Shall we see her face again?
Hearken to the weeping rain,
Never sunbeam greets the day.
More inconstant than the May,
She cares nothing for our pain,
Nor will hear the birds complain
In their bowers that once were gay.
Summer, Summer, come once more,
Drive the shadows from the field,
All thy radiance round thee fling,
Be our lady as of yore;
Then the earth her fruits shall yield,
Then the morning stars shall sing.