Page:Myrtle and Myrrh.djvu/22



Sad, sad, sad—

In vain thou comest, Spring;

Sad, sad, sad—

In vain thy birds all sing:

Perfumeless is thy rose;

Thy breeze, which softly blows,

Disturbs my sea of woes,

Ay, Death is on the wing.

Gone, gone, gone—

Go seek her, mocking Spring;

Gone, gone, gone—

Aside thy garlands fling;

Destroy thy laughing bower;

Call back an April shower

To weep with me this hour:

He came, not reckoning.

Love, love, love—

What sendest thou with Spring?

Love, love, love—

What tidings these birds bring!

They tell me they can hear

Thee, in a higher sphere;

But can that dry a tear,

Or give my wish a wing?