“’TIS 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!"

Written by Florence Earle Coates