Classic Poem

This is the hour that just Life sends
To make amends;
This closet space where Grief is not;
The World forgot;
And far behind the once-trodden ways
Enwrapped in haze;
Here the soft weather fleets
Toward the sun-haunted regions of the West;
And all about us beats—
As all about a wood stripped of its best,
A still, prophetic thing—
The Rumor of the Spring!