For those who note the fate of earthly things
There lurks a sadness in the April air,
A dreamy sense of what the future brings
To things too good, too hopeful, and too fair.
The spring brings greenness to the recent grave,
But brings no solace to the mourning heart;
Nor will its rustling and its piping save
A single pang to him who must depart.
The ivy bloom is full of humming bees;
The linnets whistle in the leaves on high;
Around the stems of all the orchard trees
In flaky heaps the fallen blossoms lie:
But every leaf upon each new-clad tree
Tells but of boundless mutability.