Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
There was a poor poet named Clough, Whom his friends all united to puff, But the public, though dull, Had not such a skull As belonged to believers in Clough.
The sun is all about the world we see, the breath and strength of every spring.
His life is a watch or a vision Between a sleep and a sleep.
Forget that I remember And dream that I forget.
Despair the twin-born of devotion.