XCII

The crocus opened slowly yesterday,
And in its sod the grass began to stir,
The softening air was humming to the whirr
of little wings, alive with amorous play.
I heard the ring-dove to his mistress say,
'I love, I love,' and sidled closed to her;
The lowing cattle shook their rusty fur;
'Twas plain young Spring began her gentle sway.
But only I, of all created things,
Lie still and moody in my wintry trance,
And sulk in gloom while others join the dance.
Ah! what to me is bloom, or sound of wings,
Or coo of dove, or low of herd, that brings
Unto my dearth no promise of thy glance?