“Your Spring,” he said, “I hate: now blast, now breeze;
All weathers mixt; sharp change, confusion dire.
An easy-chair, a vast December fire,
A fine old russet folio—give me these!
Birds’ twitterings at the dawn my ear displease,
My dreams disturb. What eye could ever tire
Of orderly white ways? could e’er desire
The foolish haze of May? Such wishes tease
No sober mind!”
But none the less did break
Green from the glebe; the conéd chestnuts gave
Faint fragrance out; the robin’s breast would make
A flame a-field; the snow he could not save.
And Spring on Spring, as wave in strong wave’s wake,
Still rolls a bloomy billow o’er his grave.