In the last year I have learned How few men are worth my trust; I have seen the friend I loved Struck by death into the dust, And fears I never knew before Have knocked and knocked upon my door I shall hope little and ask for less, I said, There is no happiness.
I have grown wise at last but how Can I hide the gleam on the willow-bough, Or keep the fragrance2 out of the rain Now that April is here again? When maples stand in a haze3 of fire What can I say to the old desire, What shall I do with the joy in me That is born out of agony?