To Miss Eva Russell.

The spring time is deaf to our pleading,
    The meadows are brown as can be.
The hilltops are bleak and unlovely,
    No thrush sits and sings on the tree.
I hear many practical people
    Explain why the spring loiters so,
But, dear one, they all are mistaken:
    The true reason I alone know.

The South-wind, Spring's hand-maiden, told me
    Her mistress declared, o'er and o'er,
That, till you were here to give greeting,
    She'd visit our prairies no more.
And all her vast household stand by her!
    The thrush says he cannot come here
And sing the old songs that you loved so,
    Unless you are lingering near.

The wild pinks that rival your blushes,
    The violets blue as the sky,
Declare it no pleasure to blossom
    Unseen by your beautiful eye.
Oh darling! I'm loath to upbraid you,
    So come without further delay.
Each moment you linger, remember
    You are keeping the spring time away.
Then come! we are waiting to welcome
    The birds and the flowers, 'tis true;
But warmer than all is the welcome,
    Fair girl, that is waiting for you.

Poems of Love by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago: M.A.Donohue, 1905.

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