TEINT NEUTRE

Wide downs all gray, with gray of clouds roofed over,

Chill fields stripped naked of their gown of grain,

Small fields of rain-wet grass and close-grown clover,

Wet, wind-blown trees — and, over all, the rain.

Does memory lie? For Hope her missal closes

So far away the may and roses seem;

Ah! was there ever a garden red with roses?

Ah! were you ever mine save in a dream?

So long it is since Spring, the skylark waking

Heard her own praises in his perfect strain;

Low hang the clouds, the sad year’ s heart is breaking,

And mine, my heart — and, over all, the rain.