Where are the swallows fled?
Frozen and dead,
Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore,
O doubting heart!
Far over purple seas,
They wait in sunny ease
The balmy southern breeze,
To bring them to the northern home once more.

Why must the flowers die?
Prisoned they lie
In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain.
O doubting heart!
They only sleep below
The soft white ermine snow,
While winter winds shall blow,
To breathe and smile upon you soon again.

The sun has hid its rays
These many days;
Will dreary hours never leave' the earth?
O doubting heart!
The stormy clouds on high
Veil the same sunny sky,
That soon (for spring is nigh)
Shall wake the Summer into golden mirth.

Fair hope is dead, and light
Is quenched in night.
What sound can break the silence of despair?
O doubting heart!
Thy sky is overcast,
Yet stars shall rise at last,
Brighter for darkness past,
And angels' silver voices stir the air.^[1]

A year ago we walked the woods,
⁠A year ago to-day;
The lanes were white with blackthorn bloom,
⁠The hedges sweet with may.

We trod the happy woodland ways,
⁠Where sunset lights between
The slender hazel-stems streamed clear,
⁠And turned to gold the green.

Thrushes sang through the cool green arch,
⁠Where clouds of windflowers grew:
That beauty all was lost to me,
⁠For lack of love to you.

And you, too, missed the peace which might
⁠Have been, yet might not be,
From too much doubt and fear of fate,
⁠And too much love of me.

This year, O love! no thing is changed:
⁠As bright a sunset glows;
Again we walk the wild wet woods,
⁠Again the bluebell blows.

But still our drifted spirits fail
⁠Spring's happiness to touch;
For now you do not care for me,
⁠And I love you too much!

You bid me sing a gay refrain,
⁠Win from my lyre a note more glad,
And when I chose a brighter strain,
⁠Still — still you told me it was sad.
 
I did not mean it should be so,
⁠Nor was my wish to make you sigh;
But you are young, and do not know
⁠How joy and grief together lie.

There ever is a minor chord
⁠Struck somewhere in our earthly lays,
Ever a shadow on the sward
⁠Of brightest scenes whereon we gaze.

And while we may not heed the one
⁠Nor hear the other, each is there;
Yet lurking in the blithest tone,
⁠Yet darkening the landscape fair.

Thus, often scarcely knowing why,
⁠We cannot look without a tear;
And so it is we sometimes sigh,
⁠Tho' joyous be the song we hear.

If stars were really watching eyes
Of angel legions in the skies,
I should forget the countless host,
And seek your gazes still the most.

And if your eyes were really stars,
With leagues of desertspace for bars
To keep me from their longed-for day,
I should not feel so far away.