There's something missing in the world,
There's something wrong with Spring—
The lips of May are cold and curled,
She will not deign to sing.
There's something common in the breeze
That sweeps the tawdry skies,
And all the trees' green ecstasies
Are hateful to my eyes.

The mirth of earth's a shabby cloak,
A thread-bare guise and thin;
And every wisp of fading smoke
A vision that has been.
My heart is old and dull and dumb,
My songs are incomplete—
She does not come, she does not come
Oh will we never meet!