Classic Poem

All the flowers are overblown,
All the grass is newly mown, —
Prithee, 'tis a pity quite
Thus to sit from morn till night,
With a heart in nowise light,
Thus to sit and draw my thread
Just to earn my daily bread!
Underneath my finger grows
Heartsease, starts the pale primrose, —
Ah, to them no wind that blows,
Summer rains, nor winter snows,
Any ruin can disclose.

While I traced these wilful vines,
Clematis and jessamines,
With the freakish wandering-jew,
And the gadding ivy, too.
While I draw my needle out,
Straight I lose what I'm about,
And the fields I used to know
All their feathery reaches show.
Blue-eyed grasses interspersed
With dandelions gone to seed,
Which I used to think at first
Knew if any one had need
Of the love that I could give,
Of the life that I could live.
But there can be none so poor,
Asking alms beside my door,
While I sit and shape my flowers
Through the lonesome lingering hours!

In those fields we strolled together,
He and I, — no matter whether
All the sky was overcast,
And the wailing autumn blast
Swept us like a ghost unguessed
While we walked among the blest,
In the world that has no name,
Till, presently between us came
A third, — ah me — I quite forget
Sometimes — Here waits my violet —
One, two, — its leaves already wet —
For now, that all the flowers are blown,
I sit and sigh and weep alone!