Fresh little folded leaves-the first,
And goldener than green, they burst
Their thick full buds and take the breeze.
Here, when November stripped the trees,
I came to wrestle with a grief:
Solace I sought not, nor relief.
I shed no tears, I craved no grace,
I fain would see Grief face to face,
Fathom her awful eyes at length,
Measure my strength against her strength.