I

T HE FIRST rose on my rose-tree Budded, bloomed, and shattered, During sad days when to me Nothing mattered. Grief of grief has drained me clean; 5 Still it seems a pity No one saw,it must have been Very pretty. II

Let the little birds sing; Let the little lambs play; 10 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, 15 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! 20 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, 25 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!