Amy Lowell

Vernal Equinox

The scent of hyacinths, like a pale mist, lies
 
   between me and my book;  
And the South Wind, washing through the room,  
Makes the candles quiver.  
My nerves sting at a spatter of rain on the shutter,  
And I am uneasy with the thrusting of green shoots          
Outside, in the night.  
 
Why are you not here to overpower me with your
 
   tense and urgent love?
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