of doors are budding trees, calling birds, and
Purple rainy distances, fragrant winds and lengthening
Only in the loving heart, with its unforgetting
There is grief for seasons gone and the friend
it cannot find.
or upon this lovely earth mortal sorrow still
And remembrance still must lurk like a puny in
Ah, one wistful heartache now April with her joy
And the want of you return always with returning
York, April, 1903.