Lippincott's Monthly Magazine/Volume 93/May 1914/The Mourner



IS over—all over!" the mourner said. "My love, in the grave of my love, lies dead: Barren of bloom as yon wintry tree, Lifeless and chill, is the heart of me!

"I shall smile no more: a tale that is told Is the rapture of being. Now would I were old, Who wearying years would no longer see Stretching away unendingly!

"What value has Time? The last to-morrow For me will hold but the one, one sorrow Which, lone, I still shall endure, forlorn As the bird that, above me, its mate doth mourn." Full wearily wasted the months; and still Guarding his grief with a constant will, It chanced that the mourner, one halcyon day, Wandering sadly the self-same way,

Beheld, half doubting, the wintry tree A bower of blossom—a thing to see!— And heard with emotion the sad bird sing:— "O beauty! O love! O delight!—It is Spring!"