The bursting buds, the leafing trees,
The toying fragrance of the breeze
Call to my heart in subtlest way,
Come! come, it is a holiday!
The streamlet with unending song,
Steals soft beneath a veiling mist,
As to some sweet alluring tryst--
While I, with inner surges strong,
Find incomplete the day, and long.
Again it is the vibrant May,
The Springtime feror mocks my pain,
For I am thrall to wintry rain--
Fain would I turn my eyes away,
For love alone brings holiday.
First published in The Crisis, May 1918