23.07.2007, 11:17
Across the shaken bastions of the year
March drives his windy chariot-wheels of cold.
Somewhere, they tell me, Spring is waiting near. . . .
But all my heart is with things grey and old:--
Reliques of other Aprils, that are blown
Recklessly up and down the barren earth;
Mine the dull grasses by the Winter mown,
And the chill echoes of forgotten mirth.
Spring comes, but not for me. I know the sign
And feel it alien. I am of an age
That passes. All the blossoms that were mine
Lie trampled now beneath December's rage.
Ye children of the Spring,--may life be sweet!
For me, the world crumbles beneath my feet.
March drives his windy chariot-wheels of cold.
Somewhere, they tell me, Spring is waiting near. . . .
But all my heart is with things grey and old:--
Reliques of other Aprils, that are blown
Recklessly up and down the barren earth;
Mine the dull grasses by the Winter mown,
And the chill echoes of forgotten mirth.
Spring comes, but not for me. I know the sign
And feel it alien. I am of an age
That passes. All the blossoms that were mine
Lie trampled now beneath December's rage.
Ye children of the Spring,--may life be sweet!
For me, the world crumbles beneath my feet.