All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair -
The bees are stirring -birds are on the wing -
And Winter slumbering in
the open air,
Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!
And I the
while, the sole unbusy thing,
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor
sing.
Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow,
Have traced the
fount whence streams of nectar flow.
Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye
may,
For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away!
With lips
unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll:
And would you learn the spells that
drowse my soul?
Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve,
And Hope
without an object cannot live.
Work Without Hope
»
