Spring Bereaved I

A poem by William Henry Drummond

That zephyr every year
So soon was heard to sigh in forests here,
It was for her: that wrapp’d in gowns of green
Meads were so early seen,
That in the saddest months oft sung the merles,
It was for her; for her trees dropp’d forth pearls.
That proud and stately courts
Did envy those our shades and calm resorts,
It was for her; and she is gone, O woe!
Woods cut again do grow,
Bud doth the rose and daisy, winter done;
But we, once dead, no more do see the sun.

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