Spring in the Air

You'll come to all but me, o' spring, and as always once more you'll bring
To them your scents, hues, birds that sing, warmth and pleasure and everything
Each needs to live like a real king under your ancient azure ring.

The seared me you'll again forget with your soft, balmy rains to wet,
And sure will leave in this doomed net of many a burning threat and fret.
To me you won't be an asset. No, me you will never indebt.

I smell you, though, and wait for you to drive me mad with longings new
And make of me a wondering Jew with a heart all laden with rue
For this life that's a drop of dew which disappears so soon from view.

Do as you wish. Leave me forlorn. I am already used to scorn.
My lot's not a rose but her thorn, to wail, to moan, to weep, to mourn.
My blank garden do not adorn! Of all sorts of hope leave me shorn.

A bird forgotten in the snare with nobody around to care
Should helplessly stay there and stare and wear away when it can't tear
The ugly noose, loathsome, unfair, and only bear all in despair.