Annie Matheson (1853–1924)

“Causa fuit Pater his.”
HOR.

THE EARTH cast off her snowy shrouds,

And overhead the skies

Looked down between the soft white clouds,

As blue as children’s eyes.

“The breath of Spring was all too sweet,” she said,

“Too like the Spring that came ere he was dead.”

The grass began to grow that day,

The flowers awoke from sleep;

And round her did the sunbeams play

Till she was fain to weep.

“The light will surely blind my eyes,” she said,

“It shines so brightly still, yet he is dead.”

The buds grew glossy in the sun

On many a leafless tree,

The little brooks did laugh and run

With most melodious glee.

“O God! they make a jocund noise,” she said;

“All things forget him now that he is dead.”

The wind had from the almond flung

Red blossoms round her feet,

On hazel-boughs the catkins hung,

The willow-blooms grew sweet.

“Palm willows, fragrant with the Spring,” she said,

“He always found the first;—but he is dead.”

Right golden was the crocus flame,

And, touched with purest green,

The small white flower of stainless name

Above the ground was seen.

“He used to love the white and gold,” she said;

“The snowdrops come again, and he is dead.”

“I would not wish him back,” she cried,

“In this dark world of pain.

For him the joys of life abound,

For me its griefs remain.

I would not wish him back again,” she said,

“But Spring is hard to bear now he is dead.”