Where come no earthly sorrows, and of tears there is no trace:
They say there's no evasion - that the journey waits for all.
But oh! not in the Springtime, when the South winds softly call.
If you should come for me, and call, when softly falls the snow,
When dull the days, and cheerless, then I would gladly go.
But do not come a-calling when the bluebirds are a-wing,
Or when the pussy willows to the branches tightly cling.
I am not frightened of you, Death. I'll go with you some day -
But not when apple boughs are foamed in white and tinted spray,
For that is in the Springtime when the balmy days have come,
And I could never leave them when the bees are all a-hum.
Come if you must, to call me, when wild asters are abroad,
Or Nature spills in Supper's lap the stately golden rod,
But come not when the lilacs bloom, or tulips, in the Spring,
When butterflies are waking, and wild birds are on the wing.
If your voice should call me when the woods are gaily dressed,
And Autumn leaves are falling - I will go with them - and rest.
It matters not if morning sun, or stars, glow in the sky:
But call not, I entreat you, when the wild geese northward fly.
by Mary Radford
Mary Radford was my Great Aunt. She died in the Springtime, as did my dear Mom and now my dear Dad on the first day of Spring.
|Dad August 1923 - March 20, 2017|
93 years young