I
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.
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 Bard on the Hill 