My snowy eupatorium has dropped <br />Its silver threads of petals in the night; <br />No signal told its blossoming had stopped; <br />Its seed-films flutter silent, ghostly white: <br />No answer stirs the shining air, <br />As I ask, "Where?" <br /> <br />Beneath the glossy leaves of winter-green <br />Dead lilly-bells lie low, and in their place <br />A rounded disk of pearly pink is seen, <br />Which tells not of the lily's fragrant grace: <br />No answer stirs the shining air, <br />As I ask, "Where?" <br /> <br />This morning's sunrise does not show to me <br />Seed-film or fruit of my sweet yesterday; <br />Like falling flowers, to realms I cannot see <br />Its moments floated silently away: <br />No answer stirs the shining air, <br />As I ask, "Where?"<br /><br />Helen Hunt Jackson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/where/
