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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