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Through the Woods.
67
I never can bear now to look at the cherry in Spring,
When her boughs are down-pressed by the weight of her bee-haunted snow.
For when the bloom whitens I feel my first sorrow again—
That first pain, so strange and so keen; when he left me alone,
My brother, my playmate, my friend, in the blossoming Spring;
The Three Shining Ones came in the midnight and led him away.
But I looked for the watch-fires and dreamed—though I knew it was vain—
He might send me a word; or perhaps in that house on the pass,
Where the ringlet of smoke used to rise on the grey granite wall,
I might find the Interpreter’s house, and would play with him there. . . .
But here is the church,—do not wait,—I will walk home alone.
When her boughs are down-pressed by the weight of her bee-haunted snow.
For when the bloom whitens I feel my first sorrow again—
That first pain, so strange and so keen; when he left me alone,
My brother, my playmate, my friend, in the blossoming Spring;
The Three Shining Ones came in the midnight and led him away.
But I looked for the watch-fires and dreamed—though I knew it was vain—
He might send me a word; or perhaps in that house on the pass,
Where the ringlet of smoke used to rise on the grey granite wall,
I might find the Interpreter’s house, and would play with him there. . . .
But here is the church,—do not wait,—I will walk home alone.