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Poem	Oh, the day has set me dreaming In a strange, half solemn way Of the feelings I experienced On another long past day,— Of the way my heart made music When the buds began to blow, And o' little Lucy Landman Whom I loved long years ago. It 's in spring, the poet tells us, That we turn to thoughts of love, And our hearts go out a-wooing With the lapwing and the dove. But whene'er the soul goes seeking Its twin-soul, upon the wing, I 've a notion, backed by mem'ry, That it's love that makes the spring. I have heard a robin singing When the boughs were brown and bare, And the chilling hand of winter Scattered jewels through the air. And in spite of dates and seasons, It was always spring, I know, When I loved Lucy Landman In the days of long ago. Ah, my little Lucy Landman, I remember you as well As if 't were only yesterday I strove your thoughts to tell,— When I tilted back your bonnet, Looked into your eyes so true, Just to see if you were loving Me as I was loving you. Ah, my little Lucy Landman It is true it was denied You should see a fuller summer And an autumn by my side. But the glance of love's sweet sunlight Which your eyes that morning gave Has kept spring within my bosom, Though you lie within the grave.
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