  O BIRDS, ’twas not well done of you! O flowers and breeze, right well ye knew The weary glamour that the spring Had laid for me on every thing. ’Twas but to bring me back again The memory of the olden pain, You lured me out with songs of birds, With violet breath and fair false words! For lo! my feet had hardly passed The woven band of flowerage, cast Betwixt the meadows and the trees, When, in the bird-songs and the breeze, Another strain was taken up; And out of every blue-bell’s cup The mocking voices sang again The olden songs of love and pain. The flowers did mimic the old grace; The wan white windflowers wore her face; And in the stream I heard her words; Her voice came rippling from the birds. Dead love, I saw thy form anew Bend down among the violets blue, And, like a mist, the memory Of all the past came back to me. |
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