Why Have You Stolen My Delight In All The Golden Shows Of Spring When Every Cherry-Tree Is White And In The Limes The Thrushes Sing, O Fickler Than The April Day, O Brighter Than The Golden Broom, O Blither Than The Thrushes' Lay, O Whiter Than The Cherry-Bloom, O Sweeter Than All Things That Blow ... Why Have You Only Left For Me The Broom, The Cherry'S Crown Of Snow, And Thrushes In The Linden-Tree?