When April's here and meadows wide Once more with spring's sweet growths are pied I close each book, drop each pursuit, And past the brook, no longer mute, I joyous roam the countryside. Look, here the violets shy abide And there the mating robins hide— How keen my sense, how acute, When April's here! And list! down where the shimmering tide Hard by that farthest hill doth glide, Rise faint strains from shepherd's flute, Pan's pipes and Berecyntian lute. Each sight, each sound fresh joys provide When April's here.
On summer afternoons I sit
Quiescent by you in the park
And idly watch the sunbeams gild
And tint the ash-trees' bark.
Or else I watch the squirrels frisk
And chaffer in the grassy lane;
And all the while I mark your voice
Breaking with love and pain.
I know a woman who would give
Her chance of heaven to take my place;
To see the love-light in your eyes,
The love-glow on your face!
And there's a man whose lightest word
Can set my chilly blood afire;
Fulfillment of his least behest
Defines my life’s desire.
But he will none of me, nor I
Of you. Nor you of her. ’Tis said
The world is full of jests like these.—
I wish that I were dead.