My fault?

The daffodils, the sparrows,
the snowfall, the meadows;
Nothing comforts my restless soul
nothing that can soothe the burning coal.
Black it turned in the ages of decay
once which was green on the clay.
The chirping, the blooming; all stopped at once
when they attacked me with all the puns.
Gay I was, but is it a fault,
to turn my happiness in lines of salt.
Now here I sit in darkness, to make them feel all good,
and they warm their evenings, flaming the wood.