Spring and Despair

The cold spring twilight fills his lonely room, —
There is no warmth, no fragrance on the air, —
No song, but roll of traffic everywhere;
He dwells apart, in his own separate gloom.
Borne down by dread, inevitable doom.
The bitter winds have left the young trees bare;
So wind-swept is his soul, no longer fair,
And withering slowly in a mortal tomb.

The early cold of spring shall pass away,
And June come on, of all sweet gifts possest.
With noons for rapture, and deep nights for rest;
But never any vivifying ray
Shall change for him one hour of any day
Till death's dark flower be laid on brow and breast.