  I knew she would come! Sarcastic November Laughed cold and glum On the last red ember Of forest leaves. He was laughing, the scorner, At me forlorner Than any that grieves— Because I asked him if June would come! But I knew she would come! When snow-hearted winter Gripped river and loam, And the wind sped flinter On icy heel, I was chafing my sorrow And yearning to borrow A hope that would steal Across the hours—till June should come. And now she is here.— The wanton!—I follow Her steps, ever near, To the shade of the hollow Where violets blow: And chide her for leaving, Tho' half, still, believing She taunted me so, To make her abided return more dear. |
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