  UP from the willow-root Subduing agonies leap; The squirrel and the purple moth Turn over amid their sleep; The icicled rocks aloft Burn saffron and blue alway, And trickling and tinkling The snows of the drift decay. O mine is the head must hang And share the immortal pang! Winter or spring is fair; Thaw?’s hard to bear. Heigho! my heart?’s sick. Sweet is cherry-time, sweet A shower, a bobolink, And the little trillium-blossom Tucked under her leaf to think; But here in the vast unborn Is the bitterest place to be, Till striving and longing Shall quicken the earth and me. What change inscrutable Is nigh us, we know not well; Gone is the strength to sigh Either to live or die. Heigho! my heart?’s sick. Divider
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