When the spring comes round, and a certain day

Looks out from the brume by the eastern copsetrees

         And says, Remember,

      I begin again, as if it were new,

      A day of like date I once lived through,

      Whiling it hour by hour away;

         So shall I do till my December,

            When spring comes round.

   I take my holiday then and my rest

Away from the dun life here about me,

         Old hours re-greeting

      With the quiet sense that bring they must

      Such throbs as at first, till I house with dust,

      And in the numbness my heartsome zest

         For things that were, be past repeating

            When spring comes round.