And when she comes not, is there no one to miss her,
No one to seek her, to love her or kiss her?
Will nobody come to claim the fair clay,
Will friends all forsake her in doubt and dismay?
Must this disappointed, mistaken young life,
Gone out in its misery, not end the strife?
Will forgiveness not come, even if error were there,
To the clay of this victim of hopeless despair?
Did life in its springtime to her seem so sad,
That living was sorrow? Ah, mayhap she had