They bring delight, they bring heartache;
What wondrous things to me they say!
So bright—so dim, so sad—so gay,
No stem of theirs I dare to break—
The flowers—the haunted flowers of May!
When lip to lip they softly lay—
As soft, as still, as flake on flake,
What wondrous things to me they say!
For lo! there comes with them to play,
A child, whose feet no imprint make—