IN ILLNESS.
17
IN ILLNESS.
HEN violets blossom in the spring, Dear heart,
And May-flowers nestle in the moss,
When the red-breasted robins sing,
And the glad sunshine smiles across
The new green earth, who dreams of loss,
Or vainly grieves
At missing last year's faded leaves?
There will be violets in the spring,
Dear heart;
But haply I shall not be here:
And will the brooks or robins sing
Less jocundly? Believe me, dear,
I am of autumn, faded, sere:
And who would be
Sad in the spring-time, missing me
Dear heart;
But haply I shall not be here:
And will the brooks or robins sing
Less jocundly? Believe me, dear,
I am of autumn, faded, sere:
And who would be
Sad in the spring-time, missing me
You pity me,—life seems to you,
Dear heart,
Dear heart,
