I 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. II 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! III 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!