The first rose on my rose-tree
Budded, bloomed, and shattered,
During sad days when to me
Nothing mattered.
Grief of grief has drained me clean;
Still it seems a pity
No one saw, — it must have been
Very pretty.
Let the little birds sing;
Let the little lambs play;
Spring is here; and so 'tis spring; —
But not in the old way!
I recall a place
Where a plum-tree grew;
There you lifted up your face,
And blossoms covered you.
If the little birds sing,
And the little lambs play,
Spring is here; and so 'tis spring —
But not in the old way!
All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree!
Ere spring was going — ah, spring is gone!
And there comes no summer to the like of you and me, —
Blossom time is early, but no fruit sets on.
All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree,
Browned at the edges, turned in a day;
And I would with all my heart they trimmed a mound for me,
And weeds were tall on all the paths that led that way!