When the spring comes round, and a certain day
Looks out from the brume by the eastern copsetrees
      And says, Remember,
    I begin again, as if it were new,
    A day of like date I once lived through,
    Whiling it hour by hour away;
      So shall I do till my December,
        When spring comes round.

  I take my holiday then and my rest
Away from the dun life here about me,
      Old hours re-greeting
    With the quiet sense that bring they must
    Such throbs as at first, till I house with dust,
    And in the numbness my heartsome zest
      For things that were, be past repeating
        When spring comes round.