In the last year I have learned How few men are worth my trust； I have seen the friend I loved Struck by death into the dust, And fears I never knew before Have knocked and knocked upon my door —— "I shall hope little and ask for less," I said, "There is no happiness."

    I have grown wise at last ——but how Can I hide the gleam on the willow-bough, Or keep the fragrance² out of the rain Now that April is here again？ When maples stand in a haze³ of fire What can I say to the old desire, What shall I do with the joy in me That is born out of agony？