Spring

Once when my life was young,
I, too, with Spring’s bright face
By mine, walked softly along,
Pace to his pace.

Then burned his crimson may,
Like a clear flame outspread,
Arching our happy way:
Then would he shed

Strangely from his wild face
Wonderful light on me—
Like hounds that keen in chase
Their quarry see.

Oh, sorrow now to know
What shafts, what keenness cold
His are to pierce me through,
Now that I’m old.