 | Poems and Sonnets |  |
150
THE LAST SONNET.
Your presence is not always with me, sweet,As a conscious summer sky to dome me round
With rapture, or a soft encircling sound,
Or tenderest embrace of arms that meet,
Or sense of cool refreshment after heat,
Or wreath of flowers about my temples wound;
I seem to lose the treasure I have found,
And in the distance fade departing feet:
But, back you come, with the old threatening hair,
And grace and melody of returning spring,
More cruelly delightful, and more fair;
As each successive season seems to bring
Grass greener, sweeter roses, birds that sing
The stronger, beauty brighter yet you wear.
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