Spring And Winter

The world buds every year ; Uut the hcurt just ouce, aud whcn The b.Oiscm falla olí ?er No new blossom comes again. Ali ! tlia rose goes with the wind ; But ihe tliorus remain behind. Was it well in him, if he Feit not love, to speak of lovo 80 ? If he 8ÜU anmoved must bc, Was it nobly sought to move so ? Pluck tlie ño and yet not wear it ? Spuru, despise it, yet uot spare it f Need he say that I was fair, With such meaning m his tono, Just to speak of oue whose hair Had the same tinge a? iny owii ? Pluck my lile up, root and bloom, Just to plant it on her tomb 't And she'd scarce so fair a face (tío he used to say) as mine ; And her form has f'ar less grace, Aud her brow wa far less fine ; But 't was just that he loved Uien More tliau he can love again. Why, it beauty could not bind him, Need he praise me, speaking low ; Use my face just to remmd him How 110 fece could please him now ? Why, if loving could not move him, Did he teach me still to love him ? And he said my evL8 were bright, But his own,'he said, were dim; Aud my hand, he said, was white, But what was that to him ? " I'or," he said, " in gazin? at you I seem gazing ut a statue." " Yes," he said, " he had grown wise now ; He had sutfered much of yore, But a iair grace to his eyeu now, Was a Iair face and no more. Yet the anguish aud the biiss Aud the dream, too, had been his." Why those words, a thought too tender For the oommonplacea spoken I Looks whpss meamng seenied to render Help to words when speech carne broken ! Why so late ia July mooulight, Just to say wliafs said by noonlight ?