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.