This is the first Spring I remember

I don’t feel hope. You died in spring

And surely that one kept an ember

Of the fire your joy could bring.

Not now. Maybe more like November

The skies leach promise and voices sing

Defeatedly as if each member

Of a choir were suffering

Can it be that springs recurring

Fail to resurrect once more

She whose beauty time is blurring,

Though my heart and soul adore?

No. If hope itself were fading

Under time’s exhausting gaze

Love unending still is trading 

For dead hope eternal days

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