The path to the woods where the leaves lie dead And the stumps still stand that time has hollowed; Where many a luring smile has led And many an eager foot has followed; -- It draws me still as of old it drew, And I long for those vanished days, -- and you. The drip from the spring on the damp green moss, The violets in royal purple dresses; A sense of ineffable, mystical loss, Of you, with the April sun in your tresses. But December's here, and above is the blue Far stretch of relentless sky, -- and you! |