Francis Joseph Sherman (1871–1926)

YOU are not with me though the Spring is here!

And yet it seemed to me 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.