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.