Classic Poem

He will not come this year when tulips raise
Their scarlet heads within Aurora's gaze;
Spring will be blighted with a bitter lack,
Nothing on earth can ever bring him back
To my lorn heart that he has vanished from—
He will not come.

Blithe May will bring a pageant for the fields,
Lighting the world, which now Niobe shields,—
But he is buried with a last year's rose
'Neath a hyacinthine sepulchre of snows.
Spring will arrive with all its glad voice dumb.
He will not come …