What
stays thee from the clouded noons,
Thy sweetness from its proper place?
Can trouble live with April days,
Or
sadness in the summer moons?
Bring
orchis, bring the foxglove spire,
The little speedwell’s darling blue,
Deep tulips dash’d with fiery dew,
Laburnums,
dropping-wells of fire.
O
thou, new-year, delaying long,
Delayest the sorrow in my blood,
That longs to burst a frozen bud
And
flood a fresher throat with song.