Poetry Archives

Far from the empire of my present days,
  Where I perforce remain,
The wild, fresh airs of Spring blow to and fro,
  Piping out Winter’s reign.

I know the rosy wind-flowers spread like clouds
  Above the leafy mould,
And pollard willows over shallow pools
  Stretch out their rods of gold.

I hear the waters in the mossy swamps
  Start on their ocean quest,
Gliding through meadows, murmuring in woods,
  Till reaching final rest.

Fixed in my thoughts is Spring, so long remote,
  Though Spring cannot endow
As Summer can, or yield sweet Autumn’s peace:
  ‘T is that my heart needs now;

Or hope—maybe that Spring and Hope are one.
  Therefore I should not ask
For leave from this my place: both may be near,
  Behind my daily mask.