Twice now that lucid fiction of the pane

dissolves, the sphere that winter’s crystal bane

still-charm’d to glass the sad metempsychose

and futile ages of the suffering rose —

what, in its halt, the weary mood might show.

Earth stirs in me that stirs with roots below,

and distant nerves shrink with the lilac mist

of perfume blossom’d round the lure that, kist,

is known hard burn o’erflaked and cruel sting.

I would this old illusion of the spring

might perish once with all her airs that fawn

and traitor roses of the wooing dawn:

for none hath known the magic dream of gold

come sooth, since that first surge of light outroll’d

heroic, broke the august and mother sleep

and foam’d, and azure was the rearward deep;

and Eden afloat among the virgin boughs

fused, song-jewel sudden, and flesh was blithe with vows

to tread, divine, under the naked air;

nor knew, alas! self-doom’d thro’ time to bear

lewd summer’s dusty mock and roses’ fall,

and cynic spring, returning, virginal.