The thin night wind is cold, And the stars that rise with spring, Vega, Arcturus, Spica, Are sharp in their changeless youth, The scarcely budded trees Give themselves up to the wind, There is never a shelter here From the stars and the scent of the earth. Too late, too late, too late, Nothing could come or go That would not be too late -- I have borne too many springs. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO A MOSQUITO by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT A BALLAD OF SARSFIELD; OR, THE BURSTING OF THE GUNS by AUBREY THOMAS DE VERE A SPIRITUAL by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR THE SONG OF THE SHIRT by THOMAS HOOD YOUTH by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON |