Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.
By EpesSargent293 The Hearts Summer
T
The window-panes are white;
The snow whirls through the empty streets;
It is a dreary night!
Sit down, old friend, the wine-cups wait;
Fill to o’erflowing, fill!
Though winter howleth at the gate,
In our hearts ’t is summer still!
And greenwood sports have shared,
When, free and ever-roving boys,
The rocks, the streams, we dared;
And, as I looked upon thy face,
Back, back o’er years of ill,
My heart flies to that happy place,
Where it is summer still.
Our early hopes are strown,
And cherished flowers lie dead around,
And singing birds are flown,
The verdure is not faded quite,
Not mute all tones that thrill;
And seeing, hearing thee to-night,
In my heart ’t is summer still.
With light and life once more;
We scan the Future’s sunny track
From Youth’s enchanted shore;
The lost return: through fields of bloom
We wander at our will;
Gone is the winter’s angry gloom,—
In our hearts ’t is summer still.