Thou Comest To The Year, And Bringest All Things Beautiful And Sweet; Thy Lovely Miracles Themselves Repeat In The Green Glory Of The Grass, And Peeping Flowers That Stay Our Lingering Feet With Their Soft Eyes, Blue Like The Sky And Clear; Thou Bringest Not, Alas, Our Lily, Our May-Blossom, O New Year! Thou Bringest All Things Fair, And Bright, And Gentle, But Thou Bring'St Not Her: The May-Birds Warble, And May Breezes Stir In The Sweet-Scented Lilac Boughs; But Our One May--Our Gentlest Minister Of Gladness, With The Beauty Of Her Hair. Her Place In Our Still House Is Empty,--And The World Is Bleak And Bare.