A Memory

You are not with me though the Spring is here! And yet it seemed to-day as if the Spring Were the same one that in an ancient year Came suddenly upon our wandering.

You must remember all that chanced that day. Can you forget the shy awaking call Of the first robin?--And the foolish way The squirrel ran along the low stone wall?

The half-retreating sound of water breaking, Hushing, falling; while the pine-laden breeze Told us the tumult many crows were making Amid innumerable distant trees;

The certain presence of the birth of things Around, above, beneath, us,--everywhere; The soft return of immemorial Springs Thrilling with life the fragrant forest air;

All these were with us then. Can you forget? Or must you--even as I--remember well? To-day, all these were with me, there,--and yet They seemed to have some bitter thing to tell;

They looked with questioning eyes, and seemed to wait One's doubtful coming whom of old they knew; Till, seeing me alone and desolate, They learned how vain was strong desire of you.