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!
The Shroud
Death, I say, my heart is bowed
Unto thine—O mother!
This red gown will make a shroud
Good as any other!
(I, that would not wait to wear
My own bridal things,
In a dress dark as my hair
Made my answerings.
I, to-night, that till he came
Could not, could not wait,
In a gown as bright as flame
Held for them the gate.)
Death, I say, my heart is bowed
Unto thine—O mother!
This red gown will make a shroud
Good as any other!
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