Spleen

The roses were so red, so red,
The ivies altogether black.

If you but merely turn your head,
Beloved, all my despairs come back!

The sky was over-sweet and blue,
Too melting green the sea did show.

I always fear,--if you but knew!--
From your dear hand some killing blow.

Weary am I of holly-tree
And shining box and waving grass

Upon the tame unending lea,--
And all and all but you, alas!