Grief of grief has drained me clean;
Still it seems a pity
No one saw, -- it must have been
Very pretty.
II
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!
III
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!
The Shroud
Death, I say, my heart is bowed
Unto thine, -- O mother!
This red gown will make a shroud
Good as any other!
(I, that would not wait to wear
My own bridal things,
In a dress dark as my hair
Made my answerings.
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