Arrested Spring

The Spring has been here! thus much ye can tell.
Behold these half-unfolded leaves that he
Upon the path, beneath an ashen sky.
Within these boughs, transfixed as by a spell,
Songless the song-birds sit there is a smell,
Of Spring about, but that sweet breath shall die,
As streams the west wind freed sink stagnantly.
Because, last night, a blight on all things fell.

What will ye hope, then, in this desolate place?
Will ye entreat the Winter to make good
His promise; and with cold and lustrous grace.
Change to a chrysolite the tender bud?
Not so, all energy that change could bring
Lies mute, — arrested, with the arrested Spring.