Over the mountains of Winter,
And the cold, cold plains of snow,
Down in the valleys of Summer,
Calling my love I go.
And strong in my woe and passion,
I climb up the hills of Spring,
To listen if I hear his voice
In songs he used to sing.
I wait in the fields of Autumn,
And gather a feast of fruit,
And call my love to the banquet;
His lips are cold and mute.
I say to the wild bird flying:
“My darling sang sweet as you;
Fly o’er the earth in search of him,
And to the skies of blue.”
I say to the wild-wood flowers:
“My love was a friend to you;
Send one of your fragrant spirits
To the cool Isles of Dew,”
“Gold-girt by a belt of moonbeams,
And seek on their gleaming shore
A breath of the vanished sweetness
For me his red lips bore.”
I stand at the gates of Morning,
When the radiant angel, Light,
Draws back the great bolt of darkness,
And by the gates of Night,
When the hands of bright stars tremble
While clasping their lanterns bright;
And I hope to see him passing,
And touch his garments white.

O, love! if you hear me calling,
Flee not from the wailing cry;
Come from the grottoes of Silence
And hear me, or I die!
Stand out on the hills of Echo;
The sensitive, pulsing air
Will thrill at your softest whisper—
Speak to me, love, from there!
O, love, if I hear you calling,
Though far on the heavenly side,
My voice will float on the billow:
“Come to your spirit bride.”
—Mary A. H. Gay.