No Tidings
The year has come, the year has gone again,
And still no tidings of mine absent love!
Through the long days of spring all heaven above
And earth beneath, re-echo with my pain.
In dark cocoon my mother’s silk-worms dwell;
Like them, a captive, through the livelong day
Alone I sit and sigh my soul away,
For ne’er to any I my love may tell.
Like to the pine-trees I must stand and pine,141
While downward slanting fall the shades of night,
Till my long sleeve of purest snowy white,
With showers of tears, is steeped in bitter brine.
Anon.