Agatha
Alfred Austin
1835 to 1913
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She wanders in the April woods,
That glisten with fallen shower;
She leans her face against the buds,
stops, she stoops, she plucks a flower.
She feels ferment of the hour:
She broodeth when the ringdove broods;
The sun and flying clouds have power
Upon her and changing moods.
She cannot think she is alone,
over her senses warmly steal
Floods of unrest she to own
And almost dreads to feel.
Among the woodlands wide
Anew she roams, no more alone;
The she feared is at her side,
Spring's blushing secret is known.
The primrose and its mates have flown,
thrush's ringing note hath died;
But glancing eye and tone
Fall on her from her god, her guide.
knows not, asks not, what the goal,
She only she moves towards bliss,
And yields her pure unquestioning
To touch and fondling kiss.
And still she haunts woodland ways,
Though all fond fancy finds there now
mind of spring or summer days,
Are sodden trunk songless bough.
The past sits widowed on her brow,
she wends with wintry gaze,
To walls that house hollow vow,
To hearth where love hath ceased to blaze;
Watches the clammy twilight wane,
With grief too fixed woe or tear;
And, with her forehead 'gainst the pane,
Envies the dying year.