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.