Harper's New Monthly Magazine, No. IX.—February, 1851.—Vol. II.

It may be that the leaves of Autumn hid
His footsteps from me; it may be the snows.

"He is not dead. There was no funeral;
I wore no weeds. He must be in the Earth,
Oh where is he, that I may come to him
And he may charm the fever of my brain.

"Oh, Spring, I hope that thou wilt be my friend.
Thro' the long weary summer I toiled sore;
Having much sorrow of the envious woods
And groves that burgeoned round me where I came,
And when I would have seen him, shut him in.

"Also the Honeysuckle and wild bine
Being in love did hide him from my sight;
The Ash-tree bent above him; vicious weeds
Withheld me; Willows in the River-wind
Hissed at me, by the twilight, waving wands.

"Also, for I have told thee, oh dear Spring,
Thou knowest after I had sunk outworn
In the late summer gloom till Autumn came,
I looked up in the light of burning Woods
And entered on my wayfare when I saw
Gold on the ground and glory in the trees.

"And all my further journey thou dost know
My toils and outcries as the lusty world
Grew thin to winter; and my ceaseless feet
In Vales, and on stark Hills, till the first snow
Fell, and the large rain of the latter leaves.

"I hope that thou wilt be my friend, oh Spring,
And give me service of thy winds and streams.
It needs must be that he will hear thy voice
For thou art much as I was when he woo'd
And won me long ago beside the Dee.

"If he should bend above you, oh ye streams
And any where you look up into eyes
And think the star of love hath found her mate
And know, because of day, they are not stars;
Oh streams, they are the eyes of my beloved!
Oh murmur as I murmured once of old
And he will stay beside you, oh ye streams,
And I shall clasp him when my day is come.

"Likewise I charge thee, west wind, zephyr wind,
If thou shalt hear a voice more sweet than thine
About a sunset rose-tree deep in June,
Sweeter than thine, oh wind, when thou dost leap
Into the tree with passion, putting by
The maiden leaves that ruffle round their dame,
And singest and art silent – having dropt
In pleasure on the bosom of the rose —
Oh wind, it is the voice of my beloved.
Wake, wake, and bear me to the voice, oh wind!

"Moreover I do think that the spring birds
Will be my willing servants. Wheresoe'er
There mourns a hen-bird that hath lost her mate
Her will I tell my sorrow – weeping hers.

"And if it be a Lark whereto I speak
She shall be ware of how my Love went up
Sole singing to the cloud; and evermore
I hear his song, but him I can not see.

"And if it be a female Nightingale
That pineth in the depth of silent woods,
I also will complain to her that night
Is still. And of the creeping of the winds,
And of the sullen trees, and of the lone
Dumb Dark. And of the listening of the Stars.
What have we done, what have we done, oh Night!

"Therefore, oh Love, the summer trees shall be
My watch-towers. Wheresoe'er thou liest bound
I will be there. For ere the Spring be past
I will have preached my dolor through the Land,
And not a bird but shall have all my woe.
– And whatsoever hath my woe hath me.

"I charge you, oh ye flowers fresh from the dead,
Declare if ye have seen him. You pale flowers
Why do you quake and hang the head like me?

"You pallid flowers, why do ye watch the dust
And tremble? Ah, you met him in your caves
And shrank out shuddering on the wintry air.

"Snowdrops, you need not gaze upon the ground,
Fear not. He will not follow ye; for then
I should be happy who am doomed to woe.

"Only I bid ye say that he is there,
That I may know my grief is to be borne
And all my fate is but the common lot."