To Miss Eva Russell. <br />The spring time is deaf to our pleading, <br />The meadows are brown as can be. <br />The hilltops are bleak and unlovely, <br />No thrush sits and sings on the tree. <br />I hear many practical people <br />Explain why the spring loiters so, <br />But, dear one, they all are mistaken: <br />The true reason I alone know. <br /> <br /> <br />The South-wind, Spring's hand-maiden, told me <br />Her mistress declared, o'er and o'er, <br />That, till you were here to give greeting, <br />She'd visit our prairies no more. <br />And all her vast household stand by her! <br />The thrush says he cannot come here <br />And sing the old songs that you loved so, <br />Unless you are lingering near. <br /> <br /> <br />The wild pinks that rival your blushes, <br />The violets blue as the sky, <br />Declare it no pleasure to blossom <br />Unseen by your beautiful eye. <br />Oh darling! I'm loath to upbraid you, <br />So come without further delay. <br />Each moment you linger, remember <br />You are keeping the spring time away. <br />Then come! we are waiting to welcome <br />The birds and the flowers, 'tis true; <br />But warmer than all is the welcome, <br />Fair girl, that is waiting for you.<br /><br />Ella Wheeler Wilcox<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/why-the-spring-is-late/
