Classic Poem

Is this sad void all that is left of Spring,
Of fire and dream, of quick and delicate days?
And must all they who pass along these ways,
Come to this silence of remembering?
I, too, in the young year have had a part;
Once was it hard to doubt as hard to grieve;
So easy once, so easy to believe!—
Now all my harvest is a troubled heart.
Yet has not doubt its place, and so its right?
Its dreams and visions, faint but unforgot?
Its longing mood whence breaks some sure, glad thing,
Higher than shrine, or star, or evenlight?
Lord of the stubble, though I see Thee not,
About me sounds the Rumor of the Spring!