Edna St. Vincent Millay — Three Songs of Shattering

I The first rose on my rose-tree        &nbspBudded, bloomed, and shattered, During sad days when to me        &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbspNothing mattered. Grief of grief has drained me clean;        &nbspStill it seems a pity No one saw,—it must have been        &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbspVery pretty. II Let the little birds sing;        &nbspLet the little lambs play; Spring is here; and so 'tis spring;—        &nbspBut not in the old way! I recall a place        &nbspWhere a plum-tree grew; There you lifted up your face,        &nbspAnd blossoms covered you. If the little birds sing,        &nbspAnd the little lambs play, Spring is here; and so 'tis spring—        &nbspBut not in the old way! III All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree!        &nbspEre spring was going—ah, spring is gone! And there comes no summer to the like of you and me,—        &nbspBlossom time is early, but no fruit sets on. All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree,        &nbspBrowned at the edges, turned in a day; And I would with all my heart they trimmed a mound for me,        &nbspAnd weeds were tall on all the paths that led that way!