She will not join in the glad song again
With which she once subdued the spirit-pain
Of the earth’s pale-browed weepers.
For her the dance is ended—and for her
The flowers no more will their bright petals stir;
Nor the sad bulbul wake his melody:
The sunshine falls on every hillock’s crest,
The pulse of joy beats high in every breast;
But She, the loved and lost one, where is She?
She lies where lie the last year’s faded flow’rs;