Sad-Eyed and soft and grey thou art, o morn!
Across the long grass of the marshy
Thy west wind whispers of the coming rain,
Thy lark forgets that May is grown
Above the lush blades of the springing corn,
Thy thrush within the high elms strives in
To store up tales of spring for summer's pain -Vain day, why wert thou from the dark night born?
O many-voiced strange morn, why must thou
With vain desire the softness of my
Where she and I alone on earth did seem?
How hadst thou heart from me that land to
Wherein she wandered softly for my
And I and she no harm of love might deem?
