 | Wild honey from various thyme |  |
103
VER
Ver, sweetest Ver, that sets the birds to sing—Not through the sky, not through the fields this year
Pierces her pang: all pain is to the ear.
What like the thrush's note the heart can wring,
Piping against the thunder of the spring,
And Nature hot and secret from her bier?
What is more sharp than in these tardy, drear,
And burthened dawns to catch the twittering
Of a robin on the thorn? Ver, lonely Ver!
Hers is a kingdom where Love draws tight breath;
And incommensurate the things he saith
To the great things that he would say to her....
She is so mortal, and the time so brief:
Quickly she passes on from leaf to busy leaf.
| Wild honey from various thyme | |