WANTON JUNE

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 believing

She taunted me so,

To make her abided return more dear.