HER YEARS.
YEARS come and go, each bringing in his train, Spring fair with promise, Summer glad with bloom, Fruit-bearing Autumn, and the Winter's gloom; But years and seasons march for Her in vain, Since still she strings her rosary of pain, Catching from far some subtle, lost perfume, Some scent of roses dying on a tomb, Unfreshened by Spring's dew or Summer's rain.
Why change the seasons when She cannot change? For pomp of morn, high noon, or setting sun. What cares she? They are powerless to estrange Her soul from Grief, who, till her day is done, Companions her wherever she may range, And makes her New Years old, ere yet begun.