When shall I hear the thrushes sing,
And see their graceful, round throats swelling?
When shall I watch the bluebirds bring
The straws and twiglets for their dwelling?
When shall I hear among the trees
The little martial partridge drumming?
Oh! hasten! sights and sounds that please--
The summer is so long in coming.
The winds are talking with the sun;
I hope they will combine together
And melt the snow-drifts, one by one,
And bring again the golden weather.
Oh haste, make haste, dear sun and wind,
I long to hear the brown bee humming;
I seek for blooms I cannot find,
The summer is so long coming.
The winter has been cold, so cold;
Its winds are harsh, and bleak, and dreary,
And all its sports are stale and old;
We wait for something now more cheery.
Come up, O summer, from the south,
And bring the harps your hands are thrumming.
We pine for kisses from your mouth!
Oh! do not be long in coming.
Poems of reflection. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
Chicago, M.A. Donohue & company [c1905].
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