THE LOVER

I go through wet spring woods alone,

Through sweet green woods with heart of stone,

My weary foot upon the grass

Falls heavy as I pass.

The cuckoo from the distance cries,

The lark a pilgrim in the skies;

But all the pleasant spring is drear.

I want you, dear!

I pass the summer meadows by,

The autumn poppies bloom and die;

I speak alone so bitterly

For no voice answers me.

“O lovers parting by the gate,

O robin singing to your mate,

Plead you well, for she will hear

‘ I love you, dear!’”

I crouch alone, unsatisfied,

Mourning by winter’ s fireside.

O Fate, what evil wind you blow.

Must this be so?

No southern breezes come to bless,

So conscious of their emptiness

My lonely arms I spread in woe,

I want you so.