Spring Sadness

O Spring, and art thou here again, as one
Who, bearing erst the tidings of high things,
And echoes of that song that no man sings,
Com'st now, with all thy promises foredone?
Thy clear, fresh wind, thy clouds surprised by sun,
Swallows that wheel and dart in mazy rings.
Thy charitable wall-flower scent that clings,
And noise of streamlets carolling as they run, —

Are these not sweet as in the far-off days,
When the heart answered some mysterious call,
And eyes discerned the fair, indefinite face.
Of future things to be memorial?
Aye, sweet; and yet, alas for one who says:
"Ghosts of the vanished Springs! and is this all?"