Classic Poem

I USED to tell her of the flowers in spring,
All that she loved, but saw not; so I knew
That every lane where the wild violet grew,
The dale where daffodil went wayfaring,
And wells and rocks with young ferns upspringing,
Were lovely not alone for me; a true
Gift of delight to share with her, I drew
From these, my haunts, my wayside communing.
But now, when spring returns, and she is gone,
Now if I walk the newly-flowered ways,
What do I miss amid the fresh green sprays? —
Since they are lovely for mine eyes alone,
The silence of a winter's night is grown
A greater loneliness in April days.