Harsh, perjured Spring, most dead to me
When most I feel your living breath,
We thought on you as Life to be,
And now I find you only Death.
False Spring, that promised us your grace
To build our faltering hope upon,
You dare to come with smiling face-
To come to me when he is gone!
To come in state where he is not,
O heart of me! what will befall
When suddenly in some green spot
Alone I hear the cuckoo call!
(Emily Pfeiffer)
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