A Memory by Francis Sherman — Read

You are not with me though the Spring is here!

And yet it seemed to-day as if the Spring / Were the same one that in an ancient year / Came suddenly upon our wandering.

You must remember all that chanced that day.

Can you forget the shy awaking call / Of the first robin? -- And the foolish way / The squirrel ran along the low stone wall?

The half-retreating sound of water breaking, / Hushing, falling; while the pine-laden breeze / Told us the tumult many crows were making / Amid innumerable distant trees;

The certain presence of the birth of things / Around, above, beneath, us, -- everywhere; / The soft return of immemorial Springs / Thrilling with life the fragrant forest air;

All these were with us then. Can you forget?

Or must you -- even as I -- remember well?

To-day, all these were with me, there, -- and yet / They seemed to have some bitter thing to tell;

They looked with questioning eyes, and seemed to wait / One's doubtful coming whom of old they knew; / Till, seeing me alone and desolate, / They learned how vain was strong desire of you.