March, 1846

Now Nature in her vernal green is clad,
And windy March puts on the robe of May ;
The primrose is abroad, the buds half-way
Open their lips ; all things are blithe and glad :
Then wherefore should I droop in semblance sad,
And contradict the promise of the air ?
Ah, me ! I can but think of those that were,
And now are not — of those dear friends I had,
And have not. Alice, thou art very meek.
And hast the faith that makes affliction good.
It would be wholesome to my perilous mood
If I could see the tear upon thy cheek.
Methinks we could talk out a day — a week,
Of those we loved. Oh, Alice ! would we could !