And why shouldst thou come back to us, July,
Who vanished while we prayed thee not to pass?
Where are thy sunflowers? Where thine uncut grass?
Thy still, blue waters and thy cloudless sky?
Surely, to-day thy very self is nigh;
Only the wind that bloweth in, alas,
Telleth of fire where many a green tree was;
And the crimson sun at noonday standeth high.
Must I, like him who, seeing once again
The long-awaited face of his lost love,
Hath little strength to thank the gods above
(Remembering most the ancient passion's pain),
Yet striveth to recall the joys thereof,—
Must I, like him, beseech thee to remain?