Crispy the grass and scant;
The little flowers have vanished, not a trace
Is left of blossom on pale Nature's face:—
Restraint lies mighty on the stream—it sings
No more—dead, dead now,—like all other things;
The trees, as spectres gaunt,
Or churchyard monuments, all scattered stand,
As if they mourned the bareness of the land,—
Meagre as pallid want.
Where be the fairies now, the little fays,