The Spring of the Year
GONE were but the winter cold,
And gone were but the snow,
I could sleep in the wild woods
Where primroses blow.
Cold’s the snow at my head,
And cold at my feet;
And the finger of death’s at my e’en,
Closing them to sleep.
Let none tell my father
Or my mother so dear,—
I’ll meet them both in heaven
At the spring of the year.
LEIGH HUNT
1784-1859
Jenny kiss’d Me
JENNY kiss’d me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in!
Say I’m weary, say I’m sad,
Say that health and wealth have miss’d me,
Say I’m growing old, but add,
Jenny kiss’d me.