When spring comes and the long, unwonted snows
Fade from the shrouded parks, and little green
Adventurous points show where the crocus grows,
And soon the dazzling phalanx will be seen—
Then, in your favourite “flower-walk,” my dear,
Will troops of happy, living children play;
But I the shouts, the laughter shall not hear,
For I, dear heart, I shall not pass that way.
Was it not there that, bounding at my side,
Last year in glorious sympathy with spring,
You the first crocus suddenly espied
With musical sweet cries of welcoming?
In less frequented spots, observed of none,
My steps will stray, bereaved, forlorn, alone.