 | Song in September |  |
117
UNMELTED
Ask me not, Friend, to ramble from the books
Sounding with birds and freshets of the Spring;
For all along the landscape show the signs
Of Winter's playmate roaring in the pines,
And Frost, his wand uplifted, darkly stills
The river deep in dreams of June-bright mills.
Not yet the snow is melted on the hills.
Sounding with birds and freshets of the Spring;
For all along the landscape show the signs
Of Winter's playmate roaring in the pines,
And Frost, his wand uplifted, darkly stills
The river deep in dreams of June-bright mills.
Not yet the snow is melted on the hills.
So with the maid whom most of all I need.
Lovely in ignorance, she calmly views
The torrents in my eyes and thinks them pools
Where Simpleness her brow in lustre cools.
There's waiting to be done, my heart, ere fills
Her frost-bound breast with discomposing thrills!
Not yet the snow is melted on the hills.
Lovely in ignorance, she calmly views
The torrents in my eyes and thinks them pools
Where Simpleness her brow in lustre cools.
There's waiting to be done, my heart, ere fills
Her frost-bound breast with discomposing thrills!
Not yet the snow is melted on the hills.
| Song in September | |