March has flooded meadows,

Spring comes in a gale.

Ploughlands and bare hedges

Are bullied, and the pale

Gold willow-wands

Toss by the beaten ponds.

And now I am tormented

By such gap of loss

As this love can bring;

And the wind drops, and across

The russet lands,

Sad spring a moment stands.

Budding sweetness yet

Haunts that lack of breath:

The osiers and hazels

And alders flush in death,

And a bird cries

To open the dull skies.