Poetry Archives

I dream’d there would be Spring no more,
  That Nature’s ancient power was lost:
  The streets were black with smoke and frost,
They chatter’d trifles at the door:

I wander’d from the noisy town,
  I found a wood with thorny boughs:
  I took the thorns to bind my brows,
I wore them like a civic crown:

I met with scoffs, I met with scorns
  From youth and babe and hoary hairs:
  They call’d me in the public squares
The fool that wears a crown of thorns:

They call’d me fool, they call’d me child:
  I found an angel of the night;
  The voice was low, the look was bright;
He look’d upon my crown and smiled:

He reach’d the glory of a hand,
  That seem’d to touch it into leaf:
  The voice was not the voice of grief,
The words were hard to understand.