72
When I left you, July was in its glory,
I find you again in December's snow;
And ye who then basked where the heat was glowing,
Have changed—grown cold perhaps; even so!
I leave you again. When next I come hither,
Then will ye be nor warm nor cold;
And I shall pass the graves you lie in,
And my own heart will be poor and old.
I find you again in December's snow;
And ye who then basked where the heat was glowing,
Have changed—grown cold perhaps; even so!
I leave you again. When next I come hither,
Then will ye be nor warm nor cold;
And I shall pass the graves you lie in,
And my own heart will be poor and old.
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