Foreign Spring
The charlock and the hemlock flowers
Have hung their laces o'er the green;
The buttercups are bright and sheen
As though the Spring were ours.
But through the poplar-rank there shines
The white interminable way;
And down the hill the budding vines
Go softly gloved in grey.
Amid a purer loftier sky
The foreign sun burns far and bright:
… O mistier fields! O tenderer light!
I pause awhile and sigh.
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