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O fair
mid-spring, besung so oft and oft,
How can I praise
thy loveliness enow?
Thy sun that burns not, and thy
breezes soft
That o'er the blossoms of the orchard
blow,
The thousand things that 'neath the young
leaves grow,
The hopes and chances of the growing
year,
Winter forgotten long, and summer near.
When summer brings the lily and the rose,
She brings
us fear -her very death she brings
Hid in her anxious
heart, the forge of woes;
And, dull with fear, no
more the mavis sings.
But thou! thou diest not, but
thy fresh life clings
About the fainting autumn's
sweet decay,
When in the earth the hopeful seed they
lay.
Ah! life of all the year, why yet do I,
Amid thy snowy blossoms' fragrant drift,
Still long
for that which never draweth nigh,
Striving my
pleasure from my pain to sift,
Some weight from off
my fluttering mirth to lift?
- Now, when far bells
are ringing "Come again,
Come back, past years! why
will ye pass in vain?"
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