Poems (Terry, 1861)/Maudit printemps

by Rose Terry Cooke

MAUDIT PRINTEMPS.

 

(Béranger.)

I saw her through my window-pane
 All Winter smiling at her own;
Unknown I loved, was loved again,
 And kisses crossed that both had thrown.
Through the old lime-trees' branches gray,
 Our sole delight, fond looks to turn;
But now between us leaves will play.
 Why, hateful Spring, wilt thou return?

Ah! I shall lose her in their shade,
 The lovely angel over there!
Who fed with crumbs,—dear, tender maid!—
 Poor birds that felt the frosty air.
She calls them, and the cares she shows
 To lovers' silent signals turn.
Ah! what so fair as Winter's snows!
 Why, hateful Spring, must thou return?

Depart, and I should see her now,
 Rising, when sleep has passed away,
Fresh as they paint Aurora's brow,
 Parting the curtains of the day.
And still my lips would breathe at night,
 "Alas! my star has ceased to burn!
She sleeps—no more I see her light."—
 Why, hateful Spring, must thou return?

I pine till Winter comes again.
 Would that I heard, with welcome sound,
Tinkling against the window-pane,
 The hailstones rattle and rebound.
If all thine ancient realm were mine,
 Thy gales, thy flowers, thy warmth I'd spurn,
Since here no more her smiles can shine.
 Why, hateful Spring, must thou return.