The Dark Hour

And now, when merry winds do blow,

And rain makes trees look fresh,

An overpowering staleness holds

This mortal flesh.

Though well I love to feel the rain,

And be by winds well blown—

The mystery of mortal life

Doth press me down.

And, in this mood, come now what will,

Shine Rainbow, Cuckoo call;

There is no thing In Heaven or Earth

Can lift my soul.

I know not where this state comes from—

No cause for grief I know;

The Earth around is fresh and green,

Flowers near me grow.