Littell's Living Age/Volume 173/Issue 2233/March Meadows

white mist lies heavy on the vale — Heavy, and soft, and cold; on either hand, Ghosts of themselves, the trees and hedges stand, Nor black nor green, but vaguely dull and pale; And in the clotted air, our lambs' weak wail Is stifled; and a silent spectral band Of cattle moves across the shadowless land, Wherein all forms are blurr'd, all voices fail.

Ah me, how like is this our stern sad spring To life's yet sterner autumn! Such a mist, So cold, so formless, from the Lethe-stream Rises and spreads, and blots out everything That we have keenly loved and warmly kiss'd;         Till we too are but figures in a dream.