With the wet glistening gold of celandines, And snowdrops pushing from the withered grass, Before the bud upon the hawthorn greens, Or blackbirds go to building; but, alas! No spring within her bosom came to pass. "You’re going like a ghost," her father said; "Now put him out of mind, and be my prudent maid." It was an April morning brisk with wind, She wandered out along the brook sick-hearted, Picking the daffodils where the water dinned, While overhead the first-come swallow darted. There, at the place where all the passion started, Where love first knocked about her maiden heart, Young Lion Occleve hailed her, calling her apart To see his tulips at The Roughs, and take A spray of flowering currant; so she went. It is a bitter moment, when hearts ache, To see the loved unhappy; his intent Was but to try to comfort her; he meant To show her that he knew her heart’s despair, And that his own heart bled to see her wretched there. So, as they talked, he asked her, had she heard From Michael lately? No, she had not; she Had been a great while now, without a word. "No news is always good news," answered he. "You know," he said, "how much you mean to me; You’ve always been the queen. Oh, if I could Do anything to help, my dear, you know I would." "Nothing," she said, much touched. "But you believe-- You still believe in him?" "Why, yes," he said. Lie though it was he did not dare deceive The all too cruel faith within the maid. "That ranching is a wild and lonely trade, Far from all posts; it may be hard to send; All puzzling things like this prove simple in the end. "We should have heard if he were ill or dead. Keep a good heart. Now come"; he led the way Beyond the barton to the calving-shed, Where, on a strawy litter topped with hay, A double-pedigree prize bull-calf lay. "Near three weeks old," he said, "the Wrekin’s pet; Come up, now, son, come up; you haven’t seen him yet. "We have done well," he added, "with the stock, But this one, if he lives, will make a name." The bull-calf gambolled with his tail acock, Then shyly nosed towards them, scared but tame; His troublous eyes were sulky with blue flame. Softly he tip-toed, shying at a touch; He nosed, his breath came sweet, his pale tongue curled to clutch. They rubbed his head, and Mary went her way, Counting the dreary time, the dreary beat Of dreary minutes dragging through the day; Time crawled across her life with leaden feet; There still remained a year before her sweet Would come to claim her; surely he would come; Meanwhile there was the year, her weakening father, home. Home with its deadly round, with all its setting, Things, rooms, and fields and flowers to sting, to burn With memories of the love time past forgetting Ere absence made her very being yearn. "My love, be quick," she moaned, "return, return; Come when the three years end, oh, my dear soul, It’s bitter, wanting you." The lonely nights took toll,