Xxviii

Spring darkens before us, A flame going down, With chant from the chorus Of days without crown-- Cloud, rain, and sonorous Soft wind on the down.

She is wearier not of us Than we of the dream That spring was to love us And joy was to gleam Through the shadows above us That shift as they stream.

Half dark and half hoary, Float far on the loud Mild wind, as a glory Half pale and half proud From the twilight of story, Her tresses of cloud;

Like phantoms that glimmer Of glories of old With ever yet dimmer Pale circlets of gold As darkness grows grimmer And memory more cold.

Like hope growing clearer With wane of the moon, Shines toward us the nearer Gold frontlet of June, And a face with it dearer Than midsummer noon.