Page:Florence Earle Coates Mine and Thine 1904 024.jpg

 Rh And came no more for the whitethroat's lay,

Or the pewee's plaintive calling:

In tender tints on her broidered shoon

Blossomed the leaves of the myrtle,

And silky buds of the darling June

Were folded up in her kirtle;

And fair, fair, fair, in her sunlit hair

Were violets intertwining,

That seemed more fresh and unfading there

Than when with dewdrops shining!

She hid them all in her dim retreat:

But, heart! a truce to sighing;

She's here—incomparably sweet,

Unchanging and undying!