Yes, I will love thee when the sun
Throws light upon a thousand flowers;
When winter's biting breath is gone,
And spring leads on the smiling hours.
And I will call thee beautiful—
More beautiful than May's bright wreaths—
Tho' all the air with sweets be full,
Tho' every bird his soft tone breathes.

And I will love thee when the earth
Is bright with summer's rich attire;
When morn to seas of gold gives birth,
And eve to brighter wreaths of fire;
When the broad moon and burning stars
Are riding thro' the lucid air
On snow-white fleecy clouds for cars—
Then will I dream of thee, my fair!

I'll love thee when the autumn winds
Sweep heavily the misty plain;
When the last flower its cold bed finds,
And birds are far away again:
When the last pale and withered leaf
Along the swollen stream floats on—
One thought of thee shall give relief,
Tho' bright and lovely things are gone.

And I will shield thee when the breath
Of winter beats upon the earth;
And we will laugh at nature's death,
Content with love and festive mirth.
The tale and sportive song shall be
Only of soft and fairy things;
Young Love shall rest with us, and we
Will give old Time his silken wings.