Disillusionment

When (late one Summer's afternoon)
Retarded Spring had sprung,
I took my leave and went abroad
To view the setting sun.
Above the town, now growing quiet,
I strolled among the hills.
I felt not—lonely as a cloud,
Nor saw I—daffodils!
I heard no sap begin to stir,
Nor skylarks' spirits blithe.
No Spring threw out a snowdrop,
And I saw no pathways writhe.
The wind, our blushing, backward swain,
And poets' special bliss,
Refrained from dying in a gorge,
I rushed not for its kiss!
No cloud above looked like a lamb
Nor minded me of surf.
And Thomas Gray's forefathers rude
Seemed not to heave the turf!
The ground was cold and slippery
Pied o'er with daisies dead.
The grass had long since gone to seed,
The sky was stained brick-red!
The brook refused to chat with me—
No trout were in its train.
It went not on forever—no!
It flowed into a drain!
Disillusioned past all word
And, turning footsteps home,
I caught my foot in fernery
And mingled with the loam!
Disdaining all the mire—peeping
Coy through new-born hole,
I raised the displaced turfing up
(But not to soothe its soul!)
I threw it far—against a house
Wherein there chanced to sleep
A host of farmyard denizens,
Who roused from slumber deep!
And the night was filled with music
Oh, the cares that haunt my day!
I did not wait to fold a tent,
I merely stole away!

—I.M.L.