I am sad, nor yet can I

I am sad, nor yet can I,For all my questing, reason why;And now as night falls I will goWhere two breezes joining flowAbove a stream whose gleamless deepsCaressingly sing the while it sleepsUpon sands powdered by the moon.And there I'll lie to hear it croonIn fondling a wayward starFallen from the shoreless farSky, while winds in misty stream,Laughing and weeping in a dream,Whisper of an orchard's treesThat, shaken by the aimless breeze,Let their blossoms fade and slipSoberly, as lip to lipThey touch the misty grasses fannedTo ripples by the breeze.

Here standThe clustered lilacs faint as criesAgainst the silken-breasted skies;They nod and sway, and slow as rainTheir slowly falling petals stainThe grass as through them breezes stray,Smoothing them in silver play.And we, the marbles in the glade,Dreaming in the leafy shadeAre saddened, for we know that allThings save us must fade and fall,And the moon that sits there in the skiesDraws her hair across her eyes:She sees the blossoms blow and die,Soberly and quietly,Till spring breaks in the waiting gladeAnd the first thin branchèd shadeFalls 'thwart them, and the swallows' cryCalls down from the stirring sky,Thin and cold and hot as flameWhere spring is nothing but a name.

The stream flows calmly without soundIn the darkness gathered round;Trembling to the vagrant breezeAbout me stand the inky treesPeopled by some bird's loud cries,Until it seems as if the skiesHad shaken down their blossomed starsSeeking among the trees' dim bars,Crying aloud, each for its mate,About the old earth, insensate,Seemingly, to their white woe,But their sorrow does she knowAnd her breast, unkempt and dim,Throbs her sorrow out to them.The dying day gives all who sorrowThe boon no king may give: a morrow.