Poetry Archives

When violets were springing
  And sunshine filled the day,
And happy birds were singing
  The praises of the May,
A word came to me, blighting
  The beauty of the scene,
And in my heart was winter,
  Though all the trees were green.

Now down the blast go sailing
  The dead leaves, brown and sere;
The forests are bewailing
  The dying of the year;
A word comes to me, lighting
  With rapture all the air,
And in my heart is summer,
  Though all the trees are bare.