Thy springlike spirit has stolen from very Spring the power
Whereby he clothes in robes of leaf and bud and flower
Each new year without fail.
Not even Death, I think, could meet thee and not tremble,
Yea, surely he would turn, and sorrow and dissemble:
At sight of thy flushed cheek his hand would quail.

It seems to me that thou hast endless life within thee;
That never heart of man, nor poet's heart, must win thee,
But souls of flowers and seas:
The living voice of Spring within the woods and mountains;
The laughter of the morn in rivers and in fountains:
The deathless love-song of the thornless breeze:

These are thine own.—But I,—what can I bring but sadness?
Thou gazest at the plain with young heart full of gladness,
The plain so bright with flowers:
I see beyond the plain the solemn hills ascending
Height beyond awful height, with black crags never ending
And snow-capped vast indomitable towers.

Life's joys are all thine own, its every sunniest pleasure:
While I with only love for sunshine and for treasure
Gaze at thee, rapt and fond.
Yet ever is it true that thou art gazing only
At the broad flowerful plain,—while I with vision lonely
(So lonely!) mark the unscaled rocks beyond.