Or saddened by the re-emergence Of leaves that perished in the fall, We heed the rustling wood’s resurgence, As bitter losses we recall; Or do we mark with lamentation How nature’s lively renovation Compares with our own fading youth, For which no spring will come, in truth? Perhaps in thought we reassemble, Within a dream to which we cling, Some other and more ancient spring, That sets the aching heart atremble With visions of some distant place, A magic night, the moon’s embrace.…
