Page:Poetry, a magazine of verse, Volume 7 (October 1915-March 1916).djvu/368

POETRY: A Magazine of Verse

There comes a time in the early spring of the year,
 * Before the buds have broken,

When sorrow lays its hush upon the world
 * In syllables unspoken:

Sorrow deep as the spheres of darkened moons,
 * The sorrow that blindly knows

The futility of all unfolding, and the fading
 * Of every flower that grows.

Cool is the earth with the drooping of unspilled rain,
 * And the imminence of tears.

The buds lie under the stifling bark of the twigs,
 * Suppressed with haunting fears.

The flowers are too deep beneath the fettered earth,
 * Too closely bound in coil

To raise the petals of their deluding beauty
 * Above the loosened soil.

The mighty winds of the winter have gone down—
 * No breath of motion stirs.

There is no flame of impulse anywhere;
 * Not even a bird's wing whirs.