AN OLD SONG
The almond bloom is overpast, the apple blossoms blow.
I never loved but one man, and I never told him so.
My flowers will never come to fruit, but I have kept my pride—
A little, cold, and lonely thing, and I have naught beside.
The spring-wind caught my flowering dreams, they
lightly blew away.
I never had but one true love, and he died yesterday.