THE swallow is not come yet; The river-banks are brown; The woodside walks are dumb yet, And dreary is the town. I miss a face from the window, A footstep from the grass; I miss the boyhood of my heart, And the summer-time that was. How shall I read the books I read, Or meet the men I met? I thought to find her rose-tree dead, But it is growing yet. And the river winds among the flags, And the leaf lies on the grass. But I walk alone. My hopes are gone, And the summer-time that was. |