The rose's leaves are red
Upon the April blue,
No single leaflet shed
Of all the sun shines through;
The rose's self is white,
Her stem is lithe and tall,
Where languid with delight
She overlooks the wall.
I am not like the rose,—
My May and June are past,
And every wind that blows
Takes leaves that are my last,
And yet, I know not why,
No gladdest, greenest thing
So inly feels as I
The passion of the spring.