Can this be spring? These tearful lights that break
Across wet uplands in the windy dawn
Are paler than the primroses, that make
Dim glories on the banks of field and lawn;
Wild blasts are sweeping o'er the garden beds,
Wild clouds are drifting through the dull, grey skies,
And early flowers, rain-beaten, hang their heads;
Can it be spring that wears this stormy guise?
Can this be autumn? Freshly green and fair
The meadows glisten in the morning rays,
Touches of brown and crimson, here and there,
Are all that tell us that the year decays.
We would not have the old year young again;
If this be death, we find him passing sweet;
Watching the soft hues change on hill and plain,
We wait in peace the calm destroyer's feet.
