When first she dared the thought of life
Through all the empty years.
But when beneath the April boughs
She felt the blossoms stir,
The careless mirth of yesterday
Came near and smiled at her.
Old singing lingered in the wind,
Old joy came close again,
Oh, underneath the April boughs,
I think her heart broke then.
They are ashamed who leave so soon
The Inn of Grief--who thought to stay
Through many a faithful sun and moon,
Yet tarry but a day.
Shame-faced I watch them pay the score,
Then straight with eager footsteps press
Where waits beyond its rose-wreathed door
The Inn of Happiness.
I wish I did not know that here,
Here too--where they have dreamed to stay
So many and many a golden year
They lodge but for a day.
So quietly I seem to sit apart;
I think she does not know or guess at all,
How dear this certain hour
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