THE long and sad week's wind, like any child, Has sobbed itself to sleep. This morning's rain Has strewn the stairway with the petals wild, Red, ragged, of my sweet last rose. The lane Shows me the poplar tree, blackened and bare, Clasped to its heart a dangling empty nest. A few dull yellow leaves stir here and there, And all the air is clear from east to west. The year, I think, lies dreaming of the May, As old men dream of youth, that loved, lost thing. A spring-like thrill is in this weather gray. I wait to hear some thrush begin to sing; And half expect, as up and down I go, To see my neighbor's cherry-boughs ablow! |