THE SEASONS OF HER YEAR

Winter is white on turf and tree,

And birds are fled;

But summer songsters pipe to me,

And petals spread,

For what I dreamt of secretly

His lips have said!

O‘ tis a fine May morn, they say,

And blooms have blown;

But wild and wintry is my day,

My birds make moan;

For he who vowed leaves me to pay

Alone — alone!