(A Backwoods Ballad)
Spring, summer, autumn, winter,
Over the wild world rolls the year.
Comes June to the rose-red tamarack buds,
But Marjory comes not here.
The pastures miss her; the house without her
Grows forgotten, and gray, and old;
The wind, and the lonely light of the sun,
Are heavy with tears untold.
Spring, summer, autumn, winter,