So Spring comes merry towards me here, but earns No answering smile from me, whose life is twind With the dead boughs that winter still must bind, And whom today the Spring no more concerns. Behold, this crocus is a withering flame; This snowdrop, snow; this apple-blossoms part To breed the fruit that breeds the serpents art. Nay, for these Spring-flowers, turn thy face from them, Nor stay till on the years last lily-stem The white cup shrivels round the golden heart.