Written by
Ella Wheeler Wilcox |
You left me with the autumn time;
When the winter stripped the forest bare,
Then dressed it in his spotless rime;
When frosts were lurking in the air
You left me here and went away.
The winds were cold; you could not stay.
You sought a warmer clime, until
The south wind, artful maid, should break
The winter's trumpets, and should fill
The air with songs of birds; and wake
The sleeping blossoms on the plain
And make the brooks to flow again.
I thought that the winter desolate,
And all times felt a sense of loss.
I taught my longing heart to wait,
And said, 'When Spring shall come across
The hills, with blossoms in her track,
The she, our loved one, will come back.
'
And now the hills with grass and moss
The spring with cunning hands has spread,
And yet I feel my grievous loss.
My heart will not be comforted,
But crieth daily, 'Where is she
You promised should come back to me? '
Oh, love! where are you? day by day
I seek to find you, but in vain.
Men point me to a grave, and say:
'There is her bed upon the plain.
'
But though I see no trace of you,
I cannot thiink their words are true.
You were too sweet to wholly pass
Away from earth, and leave no trace;
You were to fair to let the grass
Grow rank and tall above your face.
Your voice, that mocked the robin's trill,
I cannot think is hushed and still.
I thought I saw your golden hair
One day, and reached to touch a strand;
I found but yellow sunbeams there -
The bright rays fell aslant my hand,
And seemed to mock, with lights and shades,
The silken meshes of your braids.
Again, I thought I saw your hand
Wave, as if beckoning to me;
I found 'twas but a lily, fanned
By the cool zephyrs from the sea.
Oh, love! I find no trace of you -
I wonder if their words were true?
One day I heard a singing voice;
A burst of music, trill on trill.
It made my very soul rejoice;
My heart gave and exultant thrill.
I cried, 'Oh heart, we've found her - hush! '
But no - 'twas the silver-throated thrush.
And once I thought I saw your face,
And wild with joy I ran to you;
But found, when I had reached the place,
'Twas a blush rose, bathed in dew.
Ah, love! I think you must be dead;
And I believe the words they said.
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