Though in an interweaving mesh of white
The seagulls hover 'neath the cliff's sheer height;
Though, hour by hour, new joys are winged for flight,
Spring comes no more for me!
Spring comes no more for me: though May will shake
White flame of hawthorn over all the lea,
Till every thick-set hedge and tangled brake
Puts on fresh flower of beauty for her sake;
Though all the world from winter-sleep awake,
Spring comes no more for me!