Spring In War-Time

Now the sprinkled blackthorn

Lies along the lover’s

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

Of its nest, warmed by its breast;

We had heart to sing last spring,

But we never built our nest.

Presently red roses

Will make all the garden gay..

Not yet have the daisies

On your clay.