A NIËLLO
I
IT is not early spring and yet Of bloodroot blooms along the stream, And blotted banks of violet, My heart will dream.
Is it because the windflower apes The beauty that was once her brow, That the white memory of it shapes The April now?
Because the wild-rose wears the blush That once made sweet her maidenhood, Its thought makes June of barren bush And empty wood?
And then I think how young she died — Straight, barren Death stalks down the trees, The hard-eyed Hours by his side, That kill and freeze.