She left in springtime, darling buds to wreath

As daffodils shrugged off the icy snow;

Mocked so by nascent life her death to grieve

And me to ask how God could make it so.

The world upraised in happiness and joy

Yet in cold earth my heart rude buried there;

Sweet feathered choirs all spirits set to buoy

While yet my soul to languish in despair.

Perhaps there is no God—no God at all—

Least one that cares about a wight like me;

By simple love could He not have forestalled

And chose a bleaker time near winter’s lede?

For now of springtide, bliss to bless the land…

Bide smiles and tears admixed by Heaven’s hand.