When the spring comes again, will you be there?
Three springs I watched and waited for your face,
And listened for your voice upon the air;
I sought for you in many a hidden place,
Saying, “She must be there.”
“Surely some magic slumber holds her fast,
She whose blue eyes were morning's earliest flowers,”
I sighed: and, one by one, before me passed
The rainbowed daughters of the vernal showers,
Saying, “She comes at last.”
Ah! broken promise of the world! how fair
You speak young hearts! In many a wanton word
Of lyric April, each succeeding year,
By risen flower, and the returning bird,
You vowed to bring back her.
And now the flutes are in the trees once more,
The violets breathe up through the melting snow,
Old Earth throws open wide her grassy door —
As if there were no violets long ago,
Or any birds before.