Three Songs of Shattering 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!