Song I Poem by Emily Pfeiffer
Song I
Why art thou silent when each bird
And every freshet sings?
Poor heart, hast thou alone no word
To mingle with the spring's?
No faintest word; the spring that gives
But gladdens whom it dowers;
On every tree there come young leaves,
To every field fresh flowers.
Spring gives to every flower a bee,
For every flower is fair;
But spring has now no gift for me,
And dumb is my despair.
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4/26/2024 1:48:52 PM # 1.0.0.1119
