Why am I here?
I, who belonged to that dread season drear,
When, wet and cold,
November rains did change to formless mould
My comrades, and did sweep
Them all to their last sleep;
But I—
I was passed by.
Even the storm that wild Autumnal night,
When winds, tornado-like, rushed by in might,
And carried my companions on their breast,—
Left me at rest.
I had been happier far with them to fly
Fiercely dissolved, against an avenging sky—
Riding Death's ride upon the sounding gale,—
Than, wan and pale,
Against this branch to cling,
And wait a new-born Spring!
I have no place
Where buds do bloom apace.
One near me now
Burst into adolescence,
How, ah! how?
Her fragrant scents
With youth's impertinence
Importune me to know why I still hold
The branch, with tendrils cold—
“Why,” they would ask of me, “have you survived?
Your brothers were short-lived
And went their way,
Why did you stay?”

And I
Can but reply,
A monk at heart,
As though apart, unshrived,
“I know not—nay—I only know
I would not have it so.”
And yet, and yet
Perchance 'tis not so sad
To see the earth once more, reborn and glad.—
I cannot feel it—not one hollow vein
Can nature's sap retain;
But I can see
The mystery of bloom, on bud and tree,
Can hear new leaves
Murmur within their shoots of days to come,
Can almost hear the hum
Of some precocious and marauding bee
Around the roots
Of flowers it may not see.—

And even I—
A skeleton indeed at such a feast,
For one brief moment
From my fate released,
Can chant my threnody—
Can lift my voice
And in the thought rejoice,
As one who, living still, though out of time,
Has heard again the rhythm and the rhyme
Of Earth's renewal. The sublime
Recurrence of the beauty of the days
Born but to praise,
When, long and sweet and slow,
The hours linger and the flowers grow.
Ah me! Ah me!
I strive to think
I am content to see,
And not to feel.—
It is not true,
I long to revel in the Heaven's blue,
I long to dance
And waver gayly in the wooing breeze
Balanced at ease,
Sure of my strength to brave its harmonies
With no mischance.
I long for mad
Sweet ecstasy, when all the world is glad—
I strain to thrill
When robins trill
The song of passion to their waiting mate;
But no, my fate
Is otherwise.
Come Wind, arise—
Blow, feigning Autumn,
Blow, as though the world
In cold November's fog and mist were furled,—
Blow fiercely—till upon the new grass hurled,
I lie, a shattered thing
That none regret.
I had no right
To that stupendous sight—
The promise and the pageant of the Spring.
And yet—! and yet—!
Hurried to Earth at last
Upon the April blast
I would not quite forget!