  I watch the little pear buds break And slip their silky sheaths, And flowers on the maples make A thousand russet wreaths, —Then something blinds my sight, and I Am full of grief, yet know not why! A rosy purple half betrays The wealth the lilacs fold; The torches of the tulips blaze In flames of red and gold; Peach boughs are blossoming above, —But oh, the vague heartache thereof! The blue sky wears in gentle wise Its loveliness again; All April sunshine,—yet mine eyes Are brimmed with April rain! The presage of sweet days to be, So strange a sadness stirs in me!
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