Unfulfilment

Ah, june is here, but where is May?— That lovely, shadowy thing, Fair promiser of fairer day, That made my fancy stretch her wing, In hope-begetting spring. The spaces vague, the luminous veil, The drift of bloom and scent, Those dreamy longings setting sail, That knew not, asked not, where they went,— Ah! was this all they meant,— This day that lets me dream no more, This bright, unshadowed round? On some illimitable shore, The harbor whither those were bound Lieth, nor yet is found.

Collection: 
English
Frances Louisa Bushnell

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