The Enchanted Heart
Here blew winter once with the snowstorms spurning
Hill and furrow and field till all were whitened;
Here it was the robin flew away frightened
When I went by dreaming of spring returning.
Now that I walk on self-same meadow and hill
Why seems winter the fairer, happier season,
And spring the very root of the mind's unreason?
Why do I ponder and roam unhappily still?
What do you lack to-day that you lacked not then,
O brooding heart, that you cannot be contented?
Far away , says the heart that was enchanted,
Long ago . . . in a dream. . . . O never again!
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