Every morning, in sun or rain, She walks by the window with sweet, grave air, And never guesses behind the pane We two are watching and thinking her fair; Lovingly watching her down the street, Dear little Blue Hood, bright and sweet.
Somebody ties that hood of blue Under the face so fair to see, Somebody loves her, beside we two, Somebody kisses her—why can’t we? Dear Little Blue Hood fresh and fair, Are you glad we love you, or don’t you care?
Up from the South come the birds that were banished, Frightened away by the presence of frost. Back to the vale comes the verdure that vanished, Back to the forest the leaves that were lost. Over the hillside the carpet of splendour, Folded through Winter, Spring spreads down again; Along the horizon, the tints that were tender, Lost hues of Summer-time, burn bright as then.
Only the mountains’ high summits are hoary, To the ice-fettered river the sun gives a key. Once more the gleaming shore lists to the story Told by an amorous Summer-kissed sea. All things revive that in Winter time perished, The rose buds again in the light o’ the sun, All that was beautiful, all that was cherished, Sweet things and dear things and all things—save one.
Late, when the year and the roses were lying Low with the ruins of Summer and bloom, Down in the dust fell a love that was dying, And the snow piled over it, and made it a tomb. Lo! now the roses are budded for blossom— Lo! now the Summer is risen again. Why dost thou bud not, O Love of my bosom? Why dost thou rise not, and thrill me as then?
Life without love is a year without Summer, Heart without love is a wood without song. Rise then, revive then, thou indolent comer: Why dost thou lie in the dark earth so long? Rise! ah, thou can’st not! the rose-tree that sheddest Its beautiful leaves, in the Springtime may bloom, But of cold things the coldest, of dead things the deadest, Love buried once, rises not from the tomb. Green things may grow on the hillside and heather, Birds seek the forest and build there and sing. All things revive in the beautiful weather, But unto a dead love there cometh no Spring.
After the May time, and after the June time, Rare with blossoms and perfumes sweet, Cometh the round world’s royal noon time, The red midsummer of blazing heat. When the sun, like an eye that never closes, Bends on the earth its fervid gaze, And the winds are still, and the crimson roses Droop and wither and die in its rays.