The Light of spring
  On the emerald earth,
A man, a maid,
  And a mood of mirth,
A foolish jest,
  That a smile amends—
It took no more
  To make us friends.

An evening breeze,
  The year in bloom,
Lips quickly...

Dear, if you love me, hold me most your friend,
Chosen from out the many who would bear
Your gladness gladly—heavily your care;
Who best can sympathize, best comprehend,
Where others fail; who, breathless to the end,
Follows your tale of joy or of despair...