Must I believe it true!  Bid me not go
Where on her grave the English violets blow;
Nay, leave me—­if a dream, indeed, it be—­
Still in my dream that she is somewhere she,
Silent, as was her wont.  It is a lie—­
She is not dead—­I did not see her die.

SPRING’S PROMISES

When the spring comes again, will you be there? 
  Three springs I watched and waited for your face,
And listened for your voice upon the air;
  I sought for you in many a hidden place,
Saying, “She must be there.”

“Surely some magic slumber holds her fast,
  She whose blue eyes were morning’s earliest flowers,”
I sighed:  and, one by one, before me passed
  The rainbowed daughters of the vernal showers,
Saying, “She comes at last.”

Ah! broken promise of the world! how fair
  You speak young hearts!  In many a wanton word
Of lyric April, each succeeding year,
  By risen flower, and the returning bird,
You vowed to bring back her.

And now the flutes are in the trees once more,
  The violets breathe up through the melting snow,
Old Earth throws open wide her grassy door—­
  As if there were no violets long ago,
Or any birds before.

“April is in the world again”

April is in the world again,
And all the world is filled with flowers—­
Flowers for others, not for me! 
For my one flower I cannot see,
Lost in the April showers.

I cannot wake her, though I sing,
And all the birds, for her dear sake,
Fill with their songs the wintry brake;
Ah! could they make her rise again,
What resurrection would be mine! 
Is she too tired to help the sun
And all the little stars to shine?

“Singing go I”

Singing go I, seeking for ever a song
  Sung long ago; I ask no more to hear
Her voice that sang—­for I should do her wrong,
  Had I the power, to bring her once more near—­

Near to the earth, its sorrow or its joy,
  To drag her back into the arms of pain
  And Love and all the April flowers again
And all her little dreams of heaven destroy.

Have I the heart?  Ah! had I but the song,
 The nightingale would listen and all things
 That talk in waterfalls and trees and strings
Would hush themselves to listen as I sang,
  Had I the song.

“Who was it swept against my door”

Who was it swept against my door just now,
With rustling robes like Autumn’s—­was it thou? 
Ah! would it were thy gown against my door—­
Only thy gown once more.

Sometimes the snow, sometimes the fluttering breath
Of April, as toward May she wandereth,
Make me a moment think that it is thou—­
But yet it is not thou!

“Face in the tomb that lies so still”