Void Spring

This placid day, here at the Winter's end,
This day of temperate sunshine and mild air.
Filled with high promise of glad things and fair.
Is unto me like some dear, chosen friend, —
Loved well by twain whose two lives might not blend
Because Death called the worshipped woman where
Is no delight in love or love's sweet care.
Where neither prayers nor songs nor sighs ascend.

If any comfort to the lover's heart
Yields the dear friend who holds so much of her
At whose light footfall he no more shall start,
Such comfort to my soul these hours impart;
I greet of Spring the Spring-like harbinger.
Knowing with me Spring's self may not confer.