Classic Poem

The month has come again, but scarce
Can Springtime come again for me,
Old comrade, with you dead; naught wears
The ancient dream and melody

'T was a Spring twilight. Cool and blue
The day set through suburban elms;
Silence and peace awaited you,
And rest in our familiar realms.

I laid and lit our fire of boughs,
In the street-window set our rose;
I bade our music-box arouse
Old airs that give a heart repose.

All night I waited for your sound—
Until the first train-whistle stirred
The dull night's dream; and, after, found
Day-noises, but of you no word.

You never came. You 'll never come.
The city keeps you where you died.
Our rose is dead, our music dumb,
And May is dead and dumb beside!