The shows we see are a vision;

Spring is not verily born.

Yet boughs turn supple and buds grow sappy,

As though the sun were indeed the sun:

And all our woods are happy

With all their birds save one.

But spring is over, but summer is over,

But autumn is over, and winter stands

With his feet sunk deep in the clover

And cowslips cold in his hands.

His hoar grim head has a hawthorn bonnet,

His gnarled gaunt hand has a gay green staff

With new-blown rose-blossom on it:

But his laugh is a dead man's laugh.

327 The laugh of spring that the heart seeks after,

327

The hand that the whole world yearns to kiss,

It rings not here in his laughter,

The sign of it is not this.

There is not strength in it left to splinter

 Prev. P 8/50 next