Once more the rapture of the wind and rain, And rich scent of the warm, damp, broken mold; And I who never thought to see again The white snow leave the fallow and the fold, Or the dark rook wheel elm-ward to her bower Am out before the first white lily flower, And long before the summer and the bee; While, like a dim, far distant dream to me, Behind the curtain-shadow of my bed, Death calls his hounds to leash, discomfited. |