Sonnet I. Poem by Christopher Pearse Cranch

THE Summer goes, with all its birds and flowers;
The Autumn passes with its solemn sky;
The Winter comes again — yet you and I
Know not the old companionship once ours.
The twilight mist between us hangs and lowers;
Your face I see not — voice I cannot hear.
No letter tells me you in thought are near.
The west-wind blows and sweeps away the showers,
But from the west no whisper comes of you.
Friends press around you in your distant home —
(Your distant home I never yet have seen,)
And old familiar greetings still renew;
While I with fancy's eyes alone can come
And peep unnoted there behind your screen.