I looked for thy return, belovéd spring!
As with a sick man's wish, I pined for thee,
A weak and fretful longing; for to me,
I thought, thy coming would renewal bring
Of powers and loves, now slowly perishing;
Thy soft clear sun, thy buds on ground and tree
Opening, the glad tumultuous melody
Of thy young birds, each new and lovely thing
Within my breast the selfsame joy would wake
They waked of old. O fond! to deem the spell
Of outward beauty could have power to make
Him happy, in whose heart the living well
Of happiness is dried! Thou camest at last
And, ere I felt thy presence, thou wast past.