Wasted Spring

Once more, though late, comes back to us the Spring!
May's sunbeams waver in the wavering trees,
And leaves and grasses sing in the singing breeze;
The time hath come for nightingales to sing, —
And suddenly, one day in June may bring
From fields wherein 't were good to lie at ease,
Life-giving as the perfume of blown seas
The warm, keen smell of hay, bewildering

The sense with its sharp sweetness; but to-day,
Notes solemn, and sad, and measured have I heard, —
The cuckoo's desolate cry presaging ill.
Telling of falling leaves, cold skies, and gray:
Make the Spring hopeless then, prophetic bird,
Since that one voice eternally is still!