When the spring mornings grew more long

early I woke from dream that told

of dreaded parting and the cold

of the gray dawns when I should long

to see once more that clear light fall

upon my hands and know that near

the yellow meadows shone with dear

small flowers and hear thy laughter fall

— as now I long only to wake

once in that quiet shine of spring

and dream an hour the hour will bring

thy laughing call that bids me wake