Poplar Leaves
A. Mary F. Robinson
1857 to 1944
The wind blows down the dusty street;
And through my soul that grieves—
It brings a sudden odour sweet:
A scent of poplar leaves.
O leaves that herald in the spring,
O freshness young and pure,
Into my weary soul you bring
The vigour to endure.
The wood is near, but out of sight,
Where all the poplars grow;
Straight up and tall and silver white,
They quiver in a row.
My love is out of sight, but near;
And through my soul that grieves
A sudden memory wafts her here
As fresh as poplar leaves.
A. Mary F. Robinson's Poplar Leaves
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