When skies are pale with the tears that bless
The soil, in falling for happiness?
And winds are fragrant with scent that flows
From out the bosom of some lone rose?
And brooks are drowsy with dusty gleams,
And languid thoughts of their winter dreams?
The fields are vital, and nude, and gray
With future promise of fruitful clay?
Ah! no, my being could not believe,
My heart desire, nor my soul conceive,