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!