C. E. T.
by Rose Terry Cooke
Blow sweet south-wind from the sea,
Bring the red buds to hill and lea,
Waken the fountains that dream of thee,
One thing cannot come back to me!
Oh! thou sleeper, the soft south air
Moaned above thee with cry and prayer;
Vain the pleading of love's despair;
Thou hast left the burden for us to bear.
Safe forever on heaven's dear shore,
Thee no winter shall visit more,
Thy heart is rested, thy fears are o'er
the hills of God no tempests roar.
Hearts that are aching with mortal pain,
Longing to hear thy voice again:
Through wintry breezes and sobbing rain,
Cry for thy coming and cry in vain.
Pass, oh spring-time! with swiftest feet.
Hasten, summer, on breezes fleet:
Come thou morning of morns most sweet,
When the living rest and the dead shall meet.
William S. Gottsberger
11 Murray Street