Teint Neutre

Wide downs all gray, with gray of clouds roofed over, Chill fields stripped naked of their gown of grain, Small fields of rain-wet grass and close-grown clover, Wet, wind-blown trees--and, over all, the rain.

Does memory lie? For Hope her missal closes So far away the may and roses seem; Ah! was there ever a garden red with roses? Ah! were you ever mine save in a dream?

So long it is since Spring, the skylark waking Heard her own praises in his perfect strain; Low hang the clouds, the sad year’s heart is breaking, And mine, my heart--and, over all, the rain.