Classic Poem

NEXT YEAR .

A twelvemonth since and I was gay;
Now I am sad.
For my lost joys I weep alway, —
Cannot be glad.
My songs are hushed; the roses dead;
Spring gone; the singing birds have fled.

I thought that death alone could part
Those that were true.
That I should bear an aching heart
I little knew.
But idle words were lightly said,
And all my hopes lay withered, — dead.

Since then for my dear love in vain
I've pined. It seems
I may not see his face again
Except in dreams.
Each night I long to make my bed
Where lie in heaps the brown leaves dead.

A month ago, in bitter scorn,
Will went from me;
A neighbour told me yester morn
He'd gone to sea.
My love yet lives. Can his be dead?
It may be bruised — not withered.