XXVIII

Spring darkens before us,

A flame going down,

With chant from the chorus

Of days without crown —

Cloud, rain, and sonorous

Soft wind on the down.

She is wearier not of us

Than we of the dream

That spring was to love us

And joy was to gleam

Through the shadows above us

That shift as they stream.

Half dark and half hoary,

Float far on the loud

Mild wind, as a glory

Half pale and half proud

From the twilight of story,

Her tresses of cloud;

Like phantoms that glimmer

Of glories of old

With ever yet dimmer

Pale circlets of gold

As darkness grows grimmer

And memory more cold.

Like hope growing clearer

With wane of the moon,

Shines toward us the nearer

Gold frontlet of June,

And a face with it dearer

Than midsummer noon.