I little know or care If the blackbird on the bough Is filling all the air With his soft crescendo now; For she is gone away, And when she went she took The springtime in her look, The peachblow on her cheek, The laughter from the brook, The blue from out the May- And what she calls a week Is forever and a day! It's little that I mind How the blossoms, pink or white, At every touch of wind Fall a-trembling with delight; For in the leafy lane, Beneath the garden-boughs, And through the silent house One thing alone I seek. Until she come again The May is not the May, And what she calls a week Is forever and a day! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SUPPLIANT by EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE AFTER THE LAST BREATH (J.H. 1813-1904) by THOMAS HARDY TO ELIZABETH, COUNTESS OF RUTLAND by BEN JONSON WRITTEN IN THE BEGINNING OF MEZERAY'S HISTORY OF FRANCE by MATTHEW PRIOR THEODORE ROOSEVELT by MORRIS ABEL BEER |