THE trees flit by, the hasty bank, June-decked with verdure sweet and rank, Like greenest water seems to flow Far from me as I go. The little houses, sleepy-eyed, Drift past in meadows soft and wide; The distant sluggish woods creep on In races never won: I see all this; I hear the song Of the merry wheels as I whirl along; And yet my very watchings seem A something in a dream... For none of me has come away From the deep white peace of yesterday; You hold me close, your hands are there, Your kisses in my hair... |