The Fog

The gray world, the gray world,
That clouds the face of Spring,
That clothes in nebulous white shrouds
Each near, familiar thing—
Even the river’s voice sounds strange,
Sullenly murmuring.
No warm light finds the gray world,
Of filmy mists and spray;
The clinging beauty of the fog
Has shut the hills away;
God’s living sun has died and left
This lovely wraith of Day.
The gray world, the ghost world,—
The winds lie as they list,
While Spring comes shyly veiled in gray
To keep her April tryst.
O you who died before this day,
What loveliness you missed!