He Laments that His Love is Dead

My love is dead, dead and in spite of me,— 
Dead while I lived,—while yet my blood was rife 
With hope and pleasure and the pride of life. 
For my love ended unexpectedly 
During the Winter, stricken like a tree 
By a nights cold, and frozen to the blood, 
Whose leaves fell off and never were renewed 
By any promise of the years to be. 
And, when the Spring came, and the birds, to mate 
Among its branches, lo! they found it bare, 
Though all around was Summer in the wood. 
Yet they took heart awhile, incredulous 
That such a tree should be for ever dead. 
“Tis early yet,” they cried. “The Spring is late. 
It shall still be as in the days that were.” 
But summer came and went while the tree stood 
Bare in the sun like a deserted house. 
—Then the birds suddenly despaired and fled.