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