How well I know that in the months to be
Pale Proserpine will blow the buds to fire,
And frost-bound hills will don their new attire;
Along the lanes the poet's eye will see
A dash of blue where swift the bluebirds flee,
And all the world will rouse at Love's desire,
And Winter at her bidding will retire,
But all this beauty will be lost to me.

Sweet April and the red-lipped, dream-eyed May
Will wander through the meadows with the breeze,
But how can Love and Beauty bear the day
When death and sorrow reign across the seas?
Sad thoughts will still my heart to old delights,
And blind mine eyes to former beauteous sights.