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My Playmate

My Playmate image
Parent Issue
Public Domain
OCR Text

The pinos were dark on Kamoth hill, Their sou;; was soft and IÖW ; The blossoms n the swöét May wind Wéré falllng likc the show. The blossoms drtfted at our fcet, Tlic orchard birds Bang citar; The sweetest and tlic saddest day It leeised of all the year. Por more to me thn blrda or ilowers, 5Jy playinate left lier liome, And took with her the iaughing spring, The inusic and the bloom. She kissed the lips of k'lh and kin, Shc laid her hands In mine ; What more could ask i.lie bashful boy Who tzd her father'a kine 1 She left us In the bloom of May ; The constant years toM o'er Thelr seasons wJth the sweet -May inoro, But she came back uo more. I walk with noiseless feet the round Of uneventful years : Still o'er and o'cr 1 sow the spring And reap the auUinin eárft She Hves where all the solden year Her sumimr roses blow ; The iluskv chlldren of the suu Beiote her come and go, TIk'iv, haply with lier jewelcd hands, She smóotbs her silben gown - No inore iJio homespull lap wüereln I shook the walnuts down. Tlie wild grapes walt us by the brook, And brown mits on the hlil And still ihe May-day flowers make svvect The woods of Follyinill. The lilies blossom In the poni, The birds botld the tree, The dark plnes sing 011 Ramoth hill 'J'hi: slow song of the sea. I wonder f .she thiuks of them, And how the o)d time seetns - If e'erthe pines of Ramóth wood Are soundlng in her dreams? I sce her face, I liear her voice, Does slic rcnicmber mine? And wliat to lier Is now the boy AYho feil her father's kijje 'Í W'iat cares she that the orioles bulld Por other eyes than ours? Tbatother bands wltli mits areiUled, And other laps wilh ïlowers 'Í O, playmatea in the olden time ! ■ Our mossy Bfiat is irreen ; lts fringing violeta blossom yet, The old trees o'er it lean. The winds so sweet with birch aud fern, A swecter mernory blow : And there in spring the fairies siug Tlie song oí long ago. And still tlie pines of Kaïnoth wootl Are EDoanlng like like tlie sea - The moaning of the sea of chance Betvveen tnyself and thee. - J. G. WhittUr.


Old News
Michigan Argus