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/
