“The sting of it all,” you said, as you stooped low over your roses,
“The worst of it is, when I think of Death,
That Spring by Spring the Earth shall still be beautiful,
And Summer by Summer be lovely again,
— And I shall be gone!”
“I would not care, perhaps,” you said, watching your roses,
“If only‘ twere dust and ruin and emptiness left behind!
But the thought that Earth and April
Year by casual year
Shall waken around the old ways, soft and beautiful,
Year by year when I am away,
— This, this breaks my heart!”