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.
