Clarence Chatham Cook (1828–1900)

WHY, Death, what dost thou here,

This time o’ year?

Peach-blow and apple-blossom;

Clouds, white as my love’s bosom;

Warm wind o’ the west

Cradling the robin’s nest;

Young meadows hasting their green laps to fill

With golden dandelion and daffodil:

These are fit sights for spring;

But, oh, thou hateful thing,

What dost thou here?

Why, Death, what dost thou here,

This time o’ year?

Fair, at the old oak’s knee,

The young anemone;

Fair, the plash places set

With dog-tooth violet;

The first sloop-sail;

The shad-flower pale;

Sweet are all sights,

Sweet are all sounds of spring;

But thou, thou ugly thing,

What dost thou here?