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!