I

The first rose on my rose-tree
       &nbspBudded, bloomed, and shattered,
During sad days when to me
       &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbspNothing mattered.

Grief of grief has drained me clean;
       &nbspStill it seems a pity
No one saw,—it must have been
       &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbspVery pretty.

II

Let the little birds sing;
       &nbspLet the little lambs play;
Spring is here; and so 'tis spring;—
       &nbspBut not in the old way!

I recall a place
       &nbspWhere a plum-tree grew;
There you lifted up your face,
       &nbspAnd blossoms covered you.

If the little birds sing,
       &nbspAnd the little lambs play,
Spring is here; and so 'tis spring—
       &nbspBut not in the old way!

III

All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree!
       &nbspEre spring was going—ah, spring is gone!
And there comes no summer to the like of you and me,—
       &nbspBlossom time is early, but no fruit sets on.

All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree,
       &nbspBrowned at the edges, turned in a day;
And I would with all my heart they trimmed a mound for me,
       &nbspAnd weeds were tall on all the paths that led that way!