To a French Poet and Refugee

The time is past — that time of little cheer,
When all the hedgerows ran in naked lines;
And all the leafless landscape, far and near,
Seem'd a rough sketch, to foil the celandines;
'Tis morn — 'tis May! arouse thy drooping powers,
Sing of the bright June-roses ere they come,
Anticipate the Summer's blowing flowers,
Till thy sweet words seem bursting into bloom;
Dear poet-exile! greet the year's advance!
Yield not to grief, but with a hymn of praise
Salute the season and these cloudless days;
And, when the sunset shall constrain thy gaze,
Then, with the closing flowers and setting rays,
Bemoan the sorrows and defeats of France.