  The year has come, the year has gone again, And still no tidings of mine absent love! Through the long days of spring all heaven above And earth beneath, re-echo with my pain. In dark cocoon my mother's silk-worms dwell; Like them, a captive, through the livelong day Alone I sit and sigh my soul away, For ne'er to any I my love may tell. Like to the pine-trees I must stand and pine, While downward slanting fall the shades of night, Till my long sleeve of purest snowy white, With showers of tears, is steeped in bitter brine. Anon. |
|
