Violin Song #1

Hope Deferred

Summer is come again. The sun is bright,

And the soft wind is breathing. Airy joy

Is sparkling in thine eyes, and in their light

My soul is shining. Come; our day's employ

Shall be to revel in unlikely things,

In gayest hopes, fondest imaginings,

And make-believes of bliss. Come, we will talk

Of waning moons, low winds, and a dim sea,

Till this fair summer, deepening as we walk,

Has grown a paradise for you and me.

But ah, those leaves!--it was not summer's mouth

Breathed such a gold upon them. And look there--

That beech how red! See, through its boughs half-bare,

How low the sun lies in the mid-day south!--

'Tis but a wandering memory that hath shone

Back from the summer mourning to be gone.

See, see the dead leaves falling! Hear thy heart,

Which, changing ever as seasons come and go,

Takes in the changing world its mournful part,

Return a sigh, an echo sad and low

To the faint, half inaudible sound

With which the leaf goes whispering to the ground!

O love, the winter lieth at the door--

Behind the winter, age and something more.

-- George MacDonald, Violin Songs and Other Poems