Desespoir

The seasons send their ruin as they go,

For in the spring the narciss shows its

Nor withers till the rose has flamed to red,

And in the autumn purple violets blow,

And the slim crocus stirs the winter snow;

Wherefore yon leafless trees will bloom

And this grey land grow green with summer

And send up cowslips for some boy to mow.

But what of life whose bitter hungry

Flows at our heels, and gloom of sunless

Covers the days which never more return?

Ambition, love and all the thoughts that

We lose too soon, and only find

In withered husks of some dead memory.