 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
“MY LOVE IS DEAD.”
'Tis Spring, the fresh green glints in the brook,
The primrose laughs from its shady nook,
Winter away like a ghost has fled, —
Let it be Spring, then — my love is dead!
The primrose laughs from its shady nook,
Winter away like a ghost has fled, —
Let it be Spring, then — my love is dead!
The Summer is come with burning light;
The swallow wheels and dips in his flight;
The Spring away like a ghost has fled, —
Let it be Summer, my love is dead!
The swallow wheels and dips in his flight;
The Spring away like a ghost has fled, —
Let it be Summer, my love is dead!
Autumn is come, with its gold-tressed trees,
Far through the wood sighs the dirge-like breeze;
Summer away like a ghost has fled, —
Let it be Autumn, my love is dead!
Far through the wood sighs the dirge-like breeze;
Summer away like a ghost has fled, —
Let it be Autumn, my love is dead!
The Winter is come, with white, wan cheek,
The bare boughs toss, and the wild winds shriek;
Autumn away like a ghost has fled, —
Let it be Winter, my love is dead!
The bare boughs toss, and the wild winds shriek;
Autumn away like a ghost has fled, —
Let it be Winter, my love is dead!
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |