opus 12

I.
 I little know or care
 If the blackbird on the bough
 Is filling all the air
 With his soft crescendo now;
    For she is gone away,
    And when she went she took
    The springtime in her look,
    The peachblow on her cheek,
    The laughter from the brook,
    The blue from out the May -
    And what she calls a week
    Is forever and a day!

II.
 It's little that I mind
 How the blossoms, pink or white,
 At every touch of wind
 Fall a-trembling with delight;
    For in the leafy lane,
    Beneath the garden boughs,
    And through the silent house
    One thing alone I seek.
    Until she come again
    The May is not the May,
    And what she calls a week
    Is forever and a day!