 | The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith |  |
Milly Gaunt's Song
—Late, late.
Late, late in May the hawthorn burst in bloom,
Long searched by chill blasts from the nipping East;
Late, late the fire-balls flamed upon the broom,
And golden-barrèd bees began to feast.
Long searched by chill blasts from the nipping East;
Late, late the fire-balls flamed upon the broom,
And golden-barrèd bees began to feast.
Late, late the bluebells in the forest glade
Made skyey patches, starred with primrose sheen,
And lady-ferns, uncoiling in the shade,
Turned serpent-folds to plumes of waving green.
Made skyey patches, starred with primrose sheen,
And lady-ferns, uncoiling in the shade,
Turned serpent-folds to plumes of waving green.
Late, late the bright fringe tipped the branching spruce,
And golden fingers sprouted on the pine;
And June came in before the curls were loose
Of gay laburnum in the clear sunshine.
And golden fingers sprouted on the pine;
And June came in before the curls were loose
Of gay laburnum in the clear sunshine.
Late, late they came, but yet they came at last,
Lilac, laburnum, sweet Forget-me-not;
But waiting for my summer, summer passed
In flowerless hoping, and in fruitless thought.
Lilac, laburnum, sweet Forget-me-not;
But waiting for my summer, summer passed
In flowerless hoping, and in fruitless thought.
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Came sunshine to the blossoms and the flowers,
Came gladness to the earth and wandering bee,
Came balmy airs and dews and tender showers,
But my spring never came, for ne'er came he.
Paul.
Came gladness to the earth and wandering bee,
Came balmy airs and dews and tender showers,
But my spring never came, for ne'er came he.
—Why, Milly dear, what is the matter with you?
There's a crack in your voice, and a shake in your head,
As if out on the strike, and with nothing to do,
You had gone to the street with a baby or two,
And a ballad to sing for your bread.
Come try something else, and we'll see what is wrong,
And how that cracked quaver got into your song.
There's a crack in your voice, and a shake in your head,
As if out on the strike, and with nothing to do,
You had gone to the street with a baby or two,
And a ballad to sing for your bread.
Come try something else, and we'll see what is wrong,
And how that cracked quaver got into your song.
| The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith | |