Some fleeting aspect of the clouds;
The changing colour of the light.
A song bursting from out the wood,
Above, a startled, wheeling flight.
Earth, from drowsy slumber rousing,
Tilting, mile upon misty mile.
Towards the climbing Sun once more,
And the Spring's importunate smile.
The air is breathless expectancy,
And all about is busy, busy all.
The early bees fumble the nectar'd
Eglantine, scrambling the warming wall.
But I, as useless as a fallen log,
Do nothing, neither work, nor build, nor sing,
But wander aimless, in a dullish fog.
My drowned heart deaf to the whirr of Spring.
I've scooped honey from the murmuring hive,
And once knew where the amaranth clings.
But nothing now my fallen soul can shrive,
Or mend its damned broken wings.
The sweetness through my fingers lost,
Life takes, as well as it can give;
And only Love is worth the cost,
But Love without hope, cannot hope to live.
For I love one who loves not me,
And perpetual Winter dogs my destiny.
