the sun, the wind, and rain

the trees, the flowers and skies,

a grosbeak’s note

from its flaming throat

and my bosom is tossed with sighs.

eyebeams and locks of hair

the curve of a white cheek near,

each day of the week

filled full of the sweet

reminders of you, my dear.

the crowd and the city street,

a hill that is bleak and bare.

a fleecy cloud

floating high and proud

and i think of my darling’s hair.

a voice that is strangely like

your own that i turn to see;

a silvery laugh,

convincing me half

my dreams have been fooling me.