When The Spring Comes Round, And A Certain Day Looks Out From The Brume By The Eastern Copsetrees And Says, Remember, I Begin Again, As If It Were New, A Day Of Like Date I Once Lived Through, Whiling It Hour By Hour Away; So Shall I Do Till My December, When Spring Comes Round. I Take My Holiday Then And My Rest Away From The Dun Life Here About Me, Old Hours Re-Greeting With The Quiet Sense That Bring They Must Such Throbs As At First, Till I House With Dust, And In The Numbness My Heartsome Zest For Things That Were, Be Past Repeating When Spring Comes Round.