A Spring Dirge

Sad, sad, sad— In vain thou comest, Spring; Sad, sad, sad— In vain thy birds all sing: Perfumeless is thy rose; Thy breeze, which softly blows, Disturbs my sea of woes, Ay, Death is on the wing.

Gone, gone, gone— Go seek her, mocking Spring; Gone, gone, gone— Aside thy garlands fling; Destroy thy laughing bower; Call back an April shower To weep with me this hour: He came, not reckoning.

Love, love, love— What sendest thou with Spring? Love, love, love— What tidings these birds bring! They tell me they can hear Thee, in a higher sphere; But can that dry a tear, Or give my wish a wing?