TO A DEAR LITTLE TRUANT,
WHO WOULDN'T COME HOME.
WHEN are you coming? the flowers have come! Bees in the balmy air happily hum; In the dim woods where the cool mosses are, Gleams the Anemone's little, light star; Tenderly, timidly down in the dell, Sighs the sweet violet, droops the harebell: —Soft in the wavy grass lightens the dew; Spring, keeps her promises, —why do not you?
Up in the blue air, the clouds are at play,—You are more graceful and lovely than they; Birds in the branches sing all the day long,—When are you coming to join in their song? Fairer than flowers, and fresher than dew! Other sweet things are here, —why are not you?
Why don't you come? we've welcomed the Rose! Every light zephyr, as gaily it goes, Whispers of other flowers, met on its way, Why has it nothing of you, love, to say? Why does it tell us of music and dew? Rose of the South! we are waiting for you!
Do not delay, darling, 'mid the dark trees, "Like a lute" murmurs the musical breeze; Sometimes the brook, as it trips by the flowers, Hushes its warble to listen for yours. Pure as the rivulet, —lovely and true! Spring should have waited till she could bring you?