Viii

What pain for him to see the blooms appear Of haw and dogwood in the spring again; The primrose dragging with its weight of rain, And hill-sloped orchards swarming far and near. To see the old fields, that her steps made dear, Grow green with deepening plenty of the grain, Yet feel how this excess of life is vain,-- How vain to him!--since she no more is here. What though the woodland bourgeon, water flow, Like a rejoicing harp, beneath the boughs! The cat-bird and the oriole arouse Day with the impulsive music of their love! Beneath the graveyard sod she will not know, Nor what his heart is all too conscious of!