Desespoir

　　The seasons send their ruin as they go，

　　For in the spring the narciss shows its head

　　Nor withers¹ till the rose has flamed to red，

　　And in the autumn purple violets blow，

　　And the slim crocus stirs the winter snow；

　　Wherefore yon leafless trees will bloom again

　　And this grey land grow green with summer rain

　　And send up cowslips for some boy to mow².

　　But what of life whose bitter hungry sea

　　Flows at our heels， and gloom of sunless night

　　Covers the days which never more return？

　　Ambition， love and all the thoughts that burn

　　We lose too soon， and only find delight

　　In withered³ husks of some dead memory.