Harsh, perjured Spring, most dead to me
When most I feel your living breath,
We thought on you as Life to be,
And now I find you only Death.
False Spring, that promised us your grace
To build our faltering hope upon,
You dare to come with smiling face—
To come to me when he is gone!
To come in state where he is not,
O heart of me! what will befall
When suddenly in some green spot
Alone I hear the cuckoo call!