Virna Sheard Poems

Love maketh its own summer time,
'Tis June, Love, when we are together,
And little I care for the frost in the air,
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Love reckons not by time--its May days of delight
Are swifter than the falling stars that pass beyond our sight.
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O England! Thy foe hath hated thee long,
And his hate is a deadly thing;
It was held in his heart till its growth was strong,
Now, words have woven it into a song
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When jonquils blow I think of one
Who sleeps beneath the green;
And all the light and song of life
And all the golden sheen
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Now they remain to us forever young
Who with such splendor gave their youth away;
Perpetual Spring is their inheritance,
Though they have lived in Flanders and in France
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Love maketh its own summer time,
'Tis June, Love, when we are together,
And little I care for the frost in the air,
For the heart makes its own summer weather.
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O heart of mine-if I were but a swallow-
A thing so fearless, swift of flight, and free-
On wings unwearied I would find and follow
Some path that led to thee!
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The little lonely crosses, the crosses low and white,
They haunt me most in the silver hour
That lies against the night;
Or when the rose-dusk dawn comes in,
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All your broken war-spent heroes,
Lord of War and Grief-you pay
With a cross of moulded iron,
Hard-wrought iron cold and grey.
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For thee, my small one--trinkets and new toys,
The wine of life and all its keenest joys,
When Christmas comes.
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