To a Lost Love
COLD snowdrops which the shrinking new-born year Sends like the dove from out the storm-tost ark ; Sweet violets which may not tarry here Beyond the earliest flutings of the lark ; Bright celandines which gild the tufted brake Before the speckled thrush her nest has made ; Fair frail anemones which star-like shake And twinkle by each sunny bank and glade ; Pale primroses wherewith the virgin spring, As with a garland, wreathes her comely head ; No eyes have I for you, nor voice to sing. My love is dead ! For she was young and pure and white as you, And fairer and more sweet, and ah! as frail. I dare not give to her the honour due, Lest, for a strain so high, my voice should fail. Like you, she knew the springtide's changeful hours ; Like you, she blossomed ere the coming leaf ; Like you, she knew not summer's teeming showers ; Like you, as comely, and, alas ! as brief. You may not see the roses, nor might she ; Such swift short beauty is its only fruit ; So a sweet silence is her eulogy, And praise is mute.
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