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The Changing Year

Red as my sweetheart's lips

Were the nodding heads of clover.

Deep as my true-love's eyes

The blue sky bending over.

All out of doors, both birds and men, were singing.

The year was springing,

And so was love.

The wintry sky is gray

As the ash of a dying ember.

The snow falls white to-day,-

It is the chill November.

The breeze that sweeps the orchard floors is sighing.

The year is dying,

But not my love!

William Byron Forbush

Index to poems in the collection by William Byron Forbush

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