Classic Poem

There is an ache close to the heart of things
This night, and tears are in the air,
A lurking heaviness the far wind brings,
And blows across the grayness of the square.
I do not know — to-morrow will be May,
And yet there is no song, no whispering mirth,
Only a burden left behind the day,
A shadow fallen dimly on the earth.
Is it that Spring, outdone with flowers and light,
Has flung herself upon the ground to rest,
And dreamed, as I, of drouth and storm and blight
On growing things — her gift with fruit unblest;
And waking in the dusk from this strange sleep,
Found in her laughing heart mad tears to weep?