Now the sprinkled blackthorn snow Lies along the lovers' lane Where last year we used to go -
Where we shall not go again.
In the hedge the buds are new, By our wood the violets peer -
Just like last year's violets, too, But they have no scent this year.
Every bird has heart to sing Of its nest, warmed by its breast;
We had heart to sing last spring, But we never built our nest.
Presently red roses blown Will make all the garden gay . . .
Not yet have the daisies grown On your clay.
1916.
