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62
SONG.
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!
