Spirit of Spring

I haven't felt this for five years, and I wish for five more.

Red buds, such flames, on ground barren, erupt

To the bright throb of the sun's beaming heart

Which vanquishes snow, the substance corrupt,

Blessing the bleak with a leaf-laden start--

Yet when the nightingale's screech pierces the sky,

Which thus starkly fades to dark, dreary blue,

The flames of the flowers do presently die

And the grass, in bereavement, weeps out a dew.

In a similar sense, I thus see you:

Sat in the sky, so brief, so softly warm,

Inspiring passions in many a hue,

Devising in me a savaging storm--

Yet when the night comes and your absence befalls,

Which thus starkly seizes the strings of my heart,

The song of the love-lark violently stalls

And the nightingale, shrieking, tears me apart.