Oh in this dearth and winter of the soul, 
When even Hope, still wont to soar and sing, 
Droopeth, a starveling bird whose downy wing 
Stiffens ere dead through the dank drift it fall-- 
Yea, ere Hope perish utterly, I call 
On thee, fond Memory, that thou haste and bring 
One leaf, one blossom from that far-off spring 
When love's auroral light lay over all. 

Bring but one pansy: haply so the thrill 
Of poignant yearning for those glad dead years 
May, like the gusty south, breathe o'er the chill 
Of frozen grief, dissolving it in tears, 
Till numb Hope, stirred by that warm dropping rain, 
Will deem, perchance, Love's springtide come again.