If he comes to-day 110
  He will find her weeping;
If he comes to-morrow
  He will find her sleeping;
If he comes the next day
  He’ll not find her at all,
He may tear his curling hair,
  Beat his breast and call.

A YEAR’S WINDFALLS

On the wind of January
  Down flits the snow,
Travelling from the frozen North
  As cold as it can blow. 
Poor robin redbreast,
  Look where he comes;
Let him in to feel your fire,
  And toss him of your crumbs.

On the wind in February
  Snowflakes float still, 10
Half inclined to turn to rain,
  Nipping, dripping, chill. 
Then the thaws swell the streams,
  And swollen rivers swell the sea:—­
If the winter ever ends
  How pleasant it will be!

In the wind of windy March
  The catkins drop down,
Curly, caterpillar-like,
  Curious green and brown. 20
With concourse of nest-building birds
  And leaf-buds by the way,
We begin to think of flowers
  And life and nuts some day.

With the gusts of April
  Rich fruit-tree blossoms fall,
On the hedged-in orchard-green,
  From the southern wall. 
Apple-trees and pear-trees
  Shed petals white or pink, 30
Plum-trees and peach-trees;
  While sharp showers sink and sink.

Little brings the May breeze
  Beside pure scent of flowers,
While all things wax and nothing wanes
  In lengthening daylight hours. 
Across the hyacinth beds
  The wind lags warm and sweet,
Across the hawthorn tops,
  Across the blades of wheat. 40

In the wind of sunny June
  Thrives the red rose crop,
Every day fresh blossoms blow
  While the first leaves drop;
White rose and yellow rose
  And moss-rose choice to find,
And the cottage cabbage-rose
  Not one whit behind.

On the blast of scorched July
  Drives the pelting hail, 50
From thunderous lightning-clouds, that blot
  Blue heaven grown lurid-pale. 
Weedy waves are tossed ashore,
  Sea-things strange to sight
Gasp upon the barren shore
  And fade away in light.

In the parching August wind
  Corn-fields bow the head,
Sheltered in round valley depths,
  On low hills outspread. 60
Early leaves drop loitering down
  Weightless on the breeze,
First fruits of the year’s decay
  From the withering trees.

In brisk wind of September
  The heavy-headed fruits
Shake upon their bending boughs
  And drop from the shoots;
Some glow golden in the sun,
  Some show green and streaked, 70
Some set forth a purple bloom,
  Some blush rosy-cheeked.