But woods they are all lonely now, And the wild flowers blow all unseen; The birds sing alone on the bough, Where Mary and I once have been. But for months she now keeps away. And I am a sad lonely hind; Trees tell me so day after day, As slowly they wave in the wind. Birds tell me, while swaying the bough, That I am all threadbare and old; The very sun looks on me now As one dead, forgotten, and cold. Once I'd a place where I could rest. And love, for then I was free; That place was my Mary's dear breast And hope was still left unto me. The Spring comes brighter day by day, And brighter flowers appear, And though she long has kept away Her name is ever dear. Then leave me still the meadow flowers, Where daffies blaze and shine; Give but the Spring's young hawthorn bower, For then sweet Mary's mine. CLOCK-A-CLAY In the cowslip pips I lie, Hidden from the buzzing fly, While green grass beneath me lies, Pearled with dew like fishes' eyes, Here I lie, a clock-a-clay. Waiting for the time o' day. While the forest quakes surprise, And the wild wind sobs and sighs, My home rocks as like to fall, On its pillar green and tall; When the pattering rain drives by Clock-a-clay keeps warm and dry. Day by day and night by night, All the week I hide from sight; In the cowslip pips I lie, In the rain still warm and dry; Day and night, and night and day, Red, black-spotted clock-a-clay. My home shakes in wind and showers, Pale green pillar topped with flowers, Bending at the wild wind's breath, Till I touch the grass beneath; Here I live, lone clock-a-clay, Watching for the time of day. SPRING Come, gentle Spring, and show thy varied greens In woods, and fields, and meadows, by clear brooks; Come, gentle Spring, and bring thy sweetest scenes, Where peace, with solitude, the loveliest looks; Where the blue unclouded sky Spreads the sweetest canopy, And Study wiser grows without her books. Come hither, gentle May, and with thee bring Flowers of all colours, and the wild briar rose; Come in wind-floating drapery, and bring Fragrance and bloom, that Nature's love bestows-- Meadow pinks and columbines, Kecksies white and eglantines, And music of the bee that seeks the rose. Come, gentle Spring, and bring thy choicest looks, Thy bosom graced with flowers, thy face with smiles; Come, gentle Spring, and trace thy wandering brooks, Through meadow gates, o'er footpath crooked stiles; Come in thy proud and best array, April dews and flowers of May, And singing birds that come where heaven smiles. EVENING