What stays thee from the clouded noons,
Thy sweetness from its proper place?
Can trouble live with April days,
Or sadness in the summer noons?
Bring orchis—bring the fox-glove spire,
The little speedwell’s darling blue,
Deep tulips dashed with fiery dew,
Laburnums dropping wells of fire.
O thou new year, delaying long,
Delayest the sorrow in my blood,