Days Too Short

WHEN primroses are out in Spring,

And small, blue violets come between;

When merry birds sing on boughs green,

And rills, as soon as born, must sing;

When butterflies will make side-leaps,

As though escaped from Nature’s hand

Ere perfect quite; and bees will stand

Upon their heads in fragrant deeps;

When small clouds are so silvery white

Each seems a broken rimmèd moon—

When such things are, this world too soon,

For me, doth wear the veil of Night.