Page:A Year's Life.djvu/76

62 Something that in another's look would not seem cold to me, And yet like ice I feel it chill the heart of memory.

She does not come to greet me so frankly as she did, And in her utmost openness I feel there's something hid; She almost seems to shun me, as if she thought that I Might win her gentle heart again to feelings long gone by.

I sought the first spring-buds for her, the fairest and the best. And she wore them for their loveliness upon her spotless breast, The blood-root and the violet, the frail anemonè. She wore them, and alas! I deemed it was for love of me!