‘ Though the dog-tooth violet come
With April showers,
And the wild-bees’ music hum
About the flowers,
We shall never wend as when
Love laughed leading us from men
Over violet vale and glen,
Where the bob-white piped for hours,
And we heard the rain-crow's drum.
Now November heavens are gray;
Autumn kills
Every joy — like leaves of May
In the rills.—
Still I sit and lean and listen
To a voice that has arisen
In my heart — with eyes that glisten
Looking at the happy hills
Fading dark-blue far away.