The Broken Wing/The Coming of Spring

​The Coming of Spring

O Spring! I cannot run to greet  Your coming as I did of old,  Clad in a shining veil of gold,With champa-buds and blowing wheatAnd silver anklets on my feet.
Let others tread the flowering ways  And pluck new leaves to bind their brows,  And swing beneath the quickening boughsA bloom with scented spikes and spraysOf coral and of chrysoprase.
But if against this sheltering wall  I lean to rest and lag behind,  Think not my love untrue, unkind,Or heedless of the luring callTo your enchanting festival.
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O Sweet! I am not false to you—  Only my weary heart of late  Has fallen from its high estateOf laughter and has lost the clueTo all the vernal joy it knew.
There was a song I used to sing—  But now I seek in vain, in vain  For the old lilting glad refrain—I have forgotten everything—Forgive me, O my comrade Spring!

Vasant Panchami Day, 1916

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