SPRING

Once when my life was young,

I, too, with Spring's bright face

By mine, walked softly along,

Pace to his pace.

Then burned his crimson may,

Like a clear flame outspread,

Arching our happy way:

Then would he shed

Strangely from his wild face

Wonderful light on me —

Like hounds that keen in chase

Their quarry see.

Oh, sorrow now to know

What shafts, what keenness cold

His are to pierce me through,

Now that I'm old.