The spring, my dear,

 

Is no longer spring.

 

Does the blackbird sing

 

What he sang last year?

 

Are the skies the old

 

Immemorial blue?

 

Or am I, or are you,

 

Grown cold?

 

Though life be change,

 

It is hard to bear

 

When the old sweet air

 

Sounds forced and strange.

 

To be out of tune,

 

Plain You and I . . .

 

It were better to die,

 

And soon!