THE gloomy lowering of the sky, The milky softness of the air, The hum of many a busy fly, Are things the cheerful well can spare; But, to the pensive, thoughtful mind, Those kindred glooms are truly dear, When in dark shades such wood-notes wind As woo and win Reflection's ear; -- The birds that warble overhead, The bees that visit every flower, The stream that murmurs o'er its bed All aid the melancholy hour. Added to this, the wasting frame, Through which life's pulses slowly beat, Would fain persuade that naught's the same As when health glowed with genial heat. Where are the spirits, light as air, That self-amused, would carol loud? Would find out pleasure everywhere, And all her paths with garlands strowed? Nature's the same: the Spring returns, The leaf again adorns the tree; How tasteless this to her who mourns -- To her who droops and fades like me! No emblem for myself I find, Save what some dying plant bestows -- Save where its drooping head I bind, And mark how strong the likeness grows. No more sweet Eve with drops distilled Shall melt o'er thee in tender grief; Nor bid Aurora's cup be filled With balmy dew from yonder leaf. What, though some seasons more had rolled Their golden suns to glad thine eye! Yet as a flower of mortal mould 'Twas still thy lot -- to bloom and die. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CLOAK, THE BOAT, AND THE SHOES by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS WHERE SHALL I DIE? by MARIA ABDY ON THE PRAIRIE by HERBERT BATES PREPARATIONS FOR VICTORY by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN A NEW PILGRIMAGE: 2 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT LONDON, SEPTEMBER, 1944 by CHARLES WILLIAM BRODRIBB |