THE LOVER TO HIS LASS.

Dearest, the Winter is here!

“It will be sad,” so you said,

“When no green leaves overhead

Shadow the paths where we tread!”

I said “It still will be dear

If we still meet,

O my sweet!”

See how the seasons are kind!

See this December forget

How to be weary and wet!

Hardly our June I regret,

Winter so comely I find

Since you are here,

O my dear!

Sweetheart, I sometimes believe,

Love, not the sun, makes us glad;

Even the mists were not sad

If your soft hand-clasp I had.

Hearts sing, though skies mourn and grieve,

All weather's fair

If you're there!

Someday a home there shall be,

Love shall be sun of it, sweet!

Joy shall be full and complete —

Sound of small voices and feet;

While, like the sunshine, for me,

You light up life —

You — my wife!