'Tis spring — the sun is putting forth his rays —
The gentle airs play lovingly together,
And on the green boughs, shaded from the weather,
The nightingales are singing rapturous lays:
The seeds are swelling for the harvest days —
The squirrels springing, and the bulls are prancing —
The butterflies along the gardens dancing,
And the bees singing endless roundelays.
There's universal joy — or eloquent,
Or silent — yet 'tis joy — and love, and gladness;
While I — poor devotee of woe and sadness,
On spring and summer turn a hopeless eye: —
Dark is the sun to me — joy's fountain dry,
Since from my soul, that soul's sweet life was rent.