Spring

By HOVHANNES HOVHANNESSIAN

(Born 1869)

None await thy smiling rays;
Whither comest thou, O Spring?
None are left to sing thy praise—
Vain thy coming now, O Spring!

All the world is wrapped in gloom,
Earth in blood is weltering:
This year brought us blackest doom—
Whither comest thou, O Spring?

No rose for the nightingale,
No flower within park or dale,
Every face with anguish pale—
Whither comest thou, O Spring?