THE WILLOW.
O willow, why forever weep,
As one who mourns an endless wrong?
What hidden woe can lie so deep?
What utter grief can last so long?
The Spring makes haste with step elate
Your life and beauty to renew;
She even bids the roses wait,
And gives her first sweet care to you.
The welcome redbreast folds his wing
To pour for you his freshest strain;
To you the earliest bluebirds sing,
Till all your light stems thrill again.
The sparrow trills his wedding song
And trusts his tender brood to you;
Fair flowering vines, the summer long,
With clasp and kiss your beauty woo.
The sunshine drapes your limbs with light,
The rain braids diamonds in your hair,
The breeze makes love to you at night,—
Yet still you droop, and still despair.
Beneath your boughs, at fall of dew,
By lovers' lips is softly told
The tale that all the ages through
Has kept the world from growing old.
But still, though April's buds unfold,
Or Summer sets the earth aleaf,
Or Autumn pranks your robes with gold,
You sway and sigh in graceful grief.
Mourn on forever, unconsoled,
And keep your secret, faithful tree!
No heart in all the world can hold
A sweeter grace than constancy.