VIII

The house is waste to-day,—

      The leaf has dropt from the spray,

      The thorn, prickt through to the song:

      If summer doeth no wrong,

            The winter will, they say.

      Sing, Heart! what heart replies?

      In vain we were calm and wise,

If the tears unkissed stand on in our eyes.

                        Heart, wilt thou go?

                              —"Ah, no!

                  Grieved hearts must break even so."