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522 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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All too surely the year will wane, And the fair gorse-gold will tarnish and dim, But lonely eyes shall ne'er seek in vain A fugitive flower 'twixt the thorns so grim While love and hope remain. Perhaps if I had—him, And he was kind,
And called me gently by my name, Perhaps I should not mind Even when winter came, And the dreary, dreary rain. |
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WHISPER 1
Y
OU saucy south wind, setting all the budded beech boughs swinging Above the wood anemones that flutter, flushed and white, When far across the wide salt waves your quick way
you were winging, Oh ! tell me, tell me, did you pass my sweetheart's ship last night ? Ah ! let the daisies be, South wind, and answer me: Did you my sailor see ? Wind, whisper very low, For none but you must know I love my lover so.
You've come by many a gorsy hill, your breath has
sweetness in it, You've ruffled up the high white clouds that fleck the
shining blue; |
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