How strange, oh, God, as in sleep's euthanasia,
Thy earth today.
Behind the window, each like an acacia,
The poplars sway.

From my small muff my hand withdrawing slightly,
I find it dry.
And from my furs, as though May touched them lightly,
Faint perfumes fly.

And through the night dark troubled dreams are rearing:
They choke and cling.
How shall I then forbear at last from fearing,
Oh, God, thy Spring?