I little know or care If the blackbird on the bough Is filling all the air With his soft crescendo now; For she is gone away, And when she went she took The springtime in her look, The peachblow on her cheek, The laughter from the brook, The blue from out the May- And what she calls a week Is forever and a day! It's little that I mind How the blossoms, pink or white, At every touch of wind Fall a-trembling with delight; For in the leafy lane, Beneath the garden-boughs, And through the silent house One thing alone I seek. Until she come again The May is not the May, And what she calls a week Is forever and a day! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TIE-DOWN OF A BONSAI by MARVIN BELL A DREAM, AFTER READING DANTE'S EPISODE OF PAULO & FRANCESCA by JOHN KEATS FAREWELL, UNKIST by THOMAS WYATT TO THE SOLITUDE OF FONTENAY by GUILLAUME AMFRYE A MINUTE by INNOKENTI FYODOROVICH ANNENSKY PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 63. AL-HAIY by EDWIN ARNOLD THE WANDERER: 5. IN HOLLAND: METEMPSYCHOSIS by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |