Spleen (after Paul Verlaine)

Around were all the roses red

The ivy all around was black.

Dear, so thou only move thine head,

Shall all mine old despairs awake!

Too blue, too tender was the sky,

The air too soft, too green the sea.

Always I fear, I know not why,

Some lamentable flight from thee.

I am so tired of holly-sprays

And weary of the bright box-tree,

Of all the endless country ways;

Of everything alas! save thee.