The Wombat Is A Joy, A Triumph,

So Spring Comes Merry Towards Me Here, But Earns No Answering Smile From Me, Whose Life Is Twin'd With The Dead Boughs That Winter Still Must Bind, And Whom Today The Spring No More Concerns. Behold, This Crocus Is A Withering Flame; This Snowdrop, Snow; This Apple-blossom's Part To Breed The Fruit That Breeds The Serpent's Art. Nay, For These Spring-flowers, Turn Thy Face From Them, Nor Stay Till On The Year's Last Lily-stem The White Cup Shrivels Round The Golden Heart.

And Love, Our Light At Night And Shade At Noon,lulls Us To Rest With Songs, And Turns Awayall Shafts Of Shelterless Tumultuous Day.

Still We Say As We Go,-"strange To Think By The Waywhatever There Is To Know,that Shall We Know One Day.

If God In His Wisdom Have Brought Closethe Day When I Must Die,that Day By Water Or Fire Or Airmy Feet Shall Fall In The Destined Snarewherever My Road May Lie.

You Have Been Mine Before - How Long Ago I May Not Know: But Just When At That Swallow's Soar, Your Neck Turned So, Some Veil Did Fall, - I Knew It All Of Yore.