Persephone

THE wild bird's first exultant strainSays,—"Winter is over—over!"And spring returns to the world again,With breath as of lilac and clover.

With a certain soft, appealing grace(Surely some sorrow hath kissed her!)She gives to our vision her girlish face,And we know how we've missed her—missed her!

For on a day she went away,Long ere the leaves were falling,And came no more for the whitethroat's lay,Or the pewee's plaintive calling.

In tender tints on her broidered shoonBlossomed the leaves of the myrtle,And silky buds of the darling JuneWere gathered up in her kirtle;And fair, fair, fair, in her sunlit hairWere violets intertwining,That seemed more fresh and unfading thereThan with dewdrops on them shining!

She hid them all in her dim retreat;But, heart! a truce to sighing;She's here—incomparably sweet,Unchanging and undying!

We see her brow, and we rejoice,Her cheek, as it pales and flushes,We hear once more in her thrilling voiceThe note of the woodland thrushes;

And through her lashes, tear-empearled,A mystic light is breaking,And all the love of the whole wide worldSeems in her eyes awaking!