April seemed a restless pain,
June a phantom in the rain;
Weary Autumn without grain
Turned her home, full of tears.
O my year, the most in vain
Of the years!
While the furrowed field was red,
While the roses rioted,
While a leaf was left to shed,
There was storm in the air.
Now that troubled heart is dead,
All is fair.
'Neath a glow of copper-grey
Spreads the stubble far away,
And the hilltop cedars play
Interludes in accord,
And the sun adorns the day
Like a sword.
Even, usual, and slow,
Blue enchanted breakers go
Over carmine reefs in snow,
With a sail in the lee:
There's the godhead that we know
On the sea.
Ah, let be a promise vast
So mysteriously downcast!
I will love this year that passed
To her grave in the wild,
And is clear of stain at last
As a child.