Sometimes, when sunshine and blue sky prevail--
When spent winds sleep, and, from the budding larch,
Small birds, with incomplete, vague sweetness, hail
The unconfirmed, yet quickening life of March,--
Then say I to myself, half-eased of care,
Toying with hope as with a maiden’s token--
“This glorious, invisible fresh air
Will clear my blood till the disease be broken.”
But slowly, from the wild and infinite west,
Up-sails a cloud, full-charged with bitter sleet.
The omen gives my spirit deep unrest;
I fling aside the hope, as indiscreet--
A false enchantment, treacherous and fair--
And sink into my habit of despair.