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Poetry of Edna St. Vincent Millay

Three Songs of Shattering


The first rose on my rose-tree
  Budded, bloomed, and shattered,
During sad days when to me
          Nothing mattered.

Grief of grief has drained me clean;
  Still it seems a pity
No one saw, -- it must have been
          Very pretty.


Let the little birds sing;
  Let the little lambs play;
Spring is here; and so 'tis spring; --
  But not in the old way!

I recall a place
  Where a plum-tree grew;
There you lifted up your face,
  And blossoms covered you.

If the little birds sing,
  And the little lambs play,
Spring is here; and so 'tis spring --
  But not in the old way!


All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree!
  Ere spring was going -- ah, spring is gone!
And there comes no summer to the like of you and me, --
  Blossom time is early, but no fruit sets on.

All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree,
  Browned at the edges, turned in a day;
And I would with all my heart they trimmed a mound for me,
  And weeds were tall on all the paths that led that way!