Persephone

The wild bird's first exultant strainSays,—"Winter is over—over!"And spring returns to the wold 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 folded up in her kirtle;

And fair, fair, fair, in her sunlit hairWere violets intertwining,That seemed more fresh and unfading thereThan when with dewdrops 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!