Blue vistas of an avenue
Range, line on line, against the sky;
Away, beyond, the low hills lie
To frame this landscape in with blue.
And clear and far the light is spread
As though earth smiled to feel the stir,
The first faint thrill that moves in her
Who, all these months, has lain as dead.
Fresh year, fresh sky, fresh hope—and yet
A sigh is in the lengthening days;
Between the trunks the blackbird strays
Whose long-drawn note is called regret.
White snowdrops, close among the roots,
Scored at your drooping hearts with green,
What scents from springs that once have been
Cling, like old griefs, among your shoots?
Yes, like old griefs; and we, who view,
Year after year, life’s deathless round,
Feel their spent throb in every wound
And know that they are deathless too.
❦