Accidia

There breathes a sense of Spring in the boon air;
The woods are amber, purple, misty red,
Primrose and violet rouse them from their bed,
Their skiey homes the patient rooks repair;
Everywhere hope is rife, joy everywhere;
But I, thy heart, lie yet unquickened,
And bleating lambs and larks that sing o'erhead
Charm not away my sluggish cold despair.

Peace, peace, fond heart; thy spring-tide is not this;
Thy sap of joy mounted, though flowers were sere,
That day, though leaves fell thick before the West.
Nor grudge nor envy thou a natural bliss.
Birds keep their season, thou through all the year
May'st sing thy song, soar skyward, make thy nest.