Poplar Leaves

THE wind blows down the dusty street;
And through my soul that grieves
It brings a sudden odour sweet,
A smell of poplar leaves.

O leaves that herald in the spring,
O freshness young and pure,
Into my weary soul you bring
The vigour to endure.

The wood is near but out of sight,
Where all the poplars grow;
Straight up and tall and silver white,
They quiver in a row.

My love is out of sight, but near;
And through my soul that grieves
A sudden memory wafts her here
As fresh as poplar leaves.

A. Mary F. Robinson.