A Spring Dirge

Sad, sad, sad⁠—
  In vain thou comest, Spring;
Sad, sad, sad⁠—
  In vain thy birds all sing:
    Perfumeless is thy rose;
    Thy breeze, which softly blows,
    Disturbs my sea of woes,
Ay, Death is on the wing.

Gone, gone, gone⁠—
  Go seek her, mocking Spring;
Gone, gone, gone⁠—
  Aside thy garlands fling;
    Destroy thy laughing bower;
    Call back an April shower
    To weep with me this hour:
He came, not reckoning.

Love, love, love⁠—
  What sendest thou with Spring?
Love, love, love⁠—
  What tidings these birds bring!
    They tell me they can hear
    Thee, in a higher sphere;
    But can that dry a tear,
Or give my wish a wing?