"I will return in April," I had said,
"To see the Mountain Bluebells wreathe this hill
With azure garlands." As the years swift-sped,
I could not leave my city-tasks but still
With the first crocus I would pledge anew
Watching the skeins of geese in northward flight.
Yet every April found me smiling through
Nostalgic tears for meadows clover-white
And greening mountains. I would ache to hear
Wind through the aspens and the night hawk's cry.
I could not be denied the stars so near
That I could pick them from my hilltop sky.
So now each springtime, though I cannot go,
I climb a greening hill where bluebells grow.
