Clark Ashton Smith

O WINDS that pass uncomforted

Through all the peacefulness of spring,

And tell the trees your sorrowing,

That they must moan till ye are fled!

Think ye the Tyrian distance holds

The crystal of unquestioned sleep?

That those forgetful purples keep

No veiled, contentious greens and golds?

Half with communicated grief,

Half that they are not free to pass

With you across the flickering grass,

Mourns each vibrating bough and leaf.

And I, with soul disquieted,

Shall find within the haunted spring

No peace, till your strange sorrowing

Is down the Tyrian distance fled.