Three Songs of Shattering

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!

        Edna St. Vincent Millay