DRAW close the curtains, and shut out
The spring’s green glow and glitter;
The resurrection-life of spring
To me brings no fresh blossoming;
I’m wearied of the flowers about–
The London sparrows’ twitter.
If I could dream–if I could see
Once more the slow smooth river,
The narrow path she used to tread,
The sunlight on her little head,
The white fire of the hawthorn tree–
But I shall see them never.
Only the boat in dreams I steer
Among the tufted rushes,
I see her white gown through the grass,
That thrills with love to feel her pass;
Only in dreams again I hear
Those unforgotten thrushes.
Sometimes in dreams I see her stand,
Her hand held out, and making
The sweet unreal so vivid seem,
I only know it is a dream
When I reach out to take her hand,
And find no hand for taking.
So once she stood; and I–too weak
To dare to say, ‘I love her’–
I dropped her hand, and took the oar
And rowed her to the farther shore;
I had my chance, and did not speak,
And chances now are over.
How dark the room has grown!–yet no,
The sky is blue above me;
This is the boat–the hawthorn tree
Is showering blossoms down on me;
And she is here as long ago,
And she has learned to love me!