Spleen
John Ireland, Paul Verlaine, Ernest Dowson
Around were all the roses red
The ivy all around was black
Dear, so thou only move thine head
Shall all mine old despairs awake!
Too blue, too tender was the sky
The air too soft, too green the sea
Always I fear, I know not why
Some lamentable flight from thee
I am so tired of holly-sprays
And weary of the bright box-tree
Of all the endless country ways;
Of everything alas! save thee