O you think the summer will ever come, With white of lily and flush of rose,— With the warm, bright days of joy and June, So long you dream they will never close?
Will the birds, atilt on the bending boughs, Sing out their hearts in a mad delight; And the golden butterflies, sun-suffused, Shimmer and shine from morn till night?
Do you think my summer will ever come, With brow of lily and cheek of rose? Shall I hold her fast,—my Joy, my June,— And dream that my day will never dose?
Will she mock the birds on the bending boughs (For her voice is music,—my heart's delight), Or be content, like the butterflies, In the sun of my love from morn till night?
O you think the summer will ever come, 
O you think the summer will ever come, 