I <br /> <br />The first rose on my rose-tree <br />Budded, bloomed, and shattered, <br />During sad days when to me <br />Nothing mattered. <br /> <br />Grief of grief has drained me clean; <br />Still it seems a pity <br />No one saw, -- it must have been <br />Very pretty. <br /> <br />II <br /> <br />Let the little birds sing; <br />Let the little lambs play; <br />Spring is here; and so 'tis spring; -- <br />But not in the old way! <br /> <br />I recall a place <br />Where a plum-tree grew; <br />There you lifted up your face, <br />And blossoms covered you. <br /> <br />If the little birds sing, <br />And the little lambs play, <br />Spring is here; and so 'tis spring -- <br />But not in the old way! <br /> <br />III <br /> <br />All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree! <br />Ere spring was going -- ah, spring is gone! <br />And there comes no summer to the like of you and me, -- <br />Blossom time is early, but no fruit sets on. <br /> <br />All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree, <br />Browned at the edges, turned in a day; <br />And I would with all my heart they trimmed a mound for me, <br />And weeds were tall on all the paths that led that way!<br /><br />Edna St Vincent Millay<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/three-songs-of-shattering-2/
