My Birthday

Chide not because I doubt who would believe!
Has not my life been like that April day
Whose dawn awoke us with such proud display
Of mocking glory, kindled to deceive,
While in the distance low winds seemed to grieve,—
Winds sad with prophecy,—then skies grew gray,
And all the morning splendor passed away,
And dark with rain came on the gusty eve?

That was my birthday, symbol of my birth,—
Capricious April's heir, the sport of Fate,
Doomed to be better friends with Grief than Mirth,
To know no love that did not come too late,—
My only hope, sore spent with life's long pain,
In some glad morning to be born again.
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