O Mother, all these things are told not of
Where I have been, and on these eyes estranged
Earth’s vernal sweetness falls so mystical
Its beauty turns a thing of bitter tears;
And even in my gladness I must grieve
For this dark change, where Death has died to me,—
For my lost Gloom, where life was life to me!
Long years from now shall ages yet unborn
Watch the returning Spring and strangely yearn;
Others shall thrill with joy like unto mine;