  THE sun, the wind, and rain The trees, the flowers and skies, A grosbeak’s note From its flaming throat And my bosom is tossed with sighs. Eyebeams and locks of hair The curve of a white cheek near, Each day of the week Filled full of the sweet Reminders of you, my dear. The crowd and the city street, A hill that is bleak and bare. A fleecy cloud Floating high and proud And I think of my darling’s hair. A voice that is strangely like Your own that I turn to see; A silvery laugh, Convincing me half My dreams have been fooling me. |
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