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 greed shoots
Outside, in the night.

Why are you not here to overpwoer me with your

     tense and urgent love?

--Amy Lowell