VI

When Spring awakens and no Spring is there,

None for the heart, it is a joyless thing.

Yet Winter softens, and all breezes bring

To the hard earth now tidings vague and fair.

The lilac buds are swelling, the mild air

Tempts forth the green; at dusk the thrushes sing

Out in the garden, and their raptures wring

The heart whose joy is of the past. I bear

Remembrance in me of dear foliage gone,

Of wilted heather and of perished flowers.

For me not one of Spring's foreshadowed hours

Is quick with presages of joy. Alone

Who cares to creep? The solitary ways

Are primrose-less, and vain the violet days.