Though time has triumphed and youth’s hope disgraced.
What though the snows are gathered on the ground,
And bare the bough within the aching chill?
I think of you—and in my ear a sound
Breaks, and enraptures with its April thrill!
I hear the trailing hem of laggard Spring,
And daffodils seem leaning to my hand,
And on the air I glimpse the eager wing
Of birds that wander from a softer land.
And I forget—forget the world of loss,