Chapter XII

Under the flowers he loved my flower lies,
Pansy, and primrose pale, and violet,
And in my heart the season’s sweetness dies,
And all my joy is faded to regret.

My garden, mine, is his new-planted grave,
Beneath the elm where birds, new-mated, sing,
Whose green-tipped branches in the west-wind wave,
And make their glad obeisance to the spring.

Tell me not spring is fair and fraught with hope,
Bid me not go seek solace at her hands!
Spring is my autumn, my year’s downward slope,
And he is lying where the tall elm stands.

My only spring, my only hope is this—
Soon, soon to follow where my treasure is.