Can this be spring? These tearful lights that break
Across wet uplands in the windy dawn
Are paler than the primroses, that make
Dim glories on the banks of field and lawn;
Wild blasts are sweeping o'er the garden beds,
Wild clouds are drifting through the dull, grey skies,
And early flowers, rain-beaten, hang their heads;
Can it be spring that wears this stormy guise?
. . . . . . . .