Songs

Now hawthorn hedges live again;
And all along the banks below
Pale primrose fires have lit the lane
Where oft we wandered long ago
And saw the blossom blow.

And talked and walked til stars pricked out,
And sang brave midnight snatches under
The moon, with never a dread nor doubt,
Nor warning of that devil’s wonder
That tore our lives asunder.

And left behind a nightmare trail
Of horrors scattered through the brain,
Of shattered hopes and memories frail
That bloom like flowers in some old lane
And tear the heart in twain.

This hawthorn hedge will bank its snow
Spring after Spring, and never care
What song and dreams of long ago
Within its shade were fashioned fair
Of happy air.

But you within the madhouse wall,
But you and I who went so free,
Never shall keep Spring’s festival
Again, though burgeon every tree
With blossom joyously.

Not that I fear to keep the faith;
Not that my heart goes cravenly;
But that some voice within me saith
‘The Spring is dead!’ yea, dead, since he
Will come no more to me.

It needeth but a tear to quench
The primrose fires: to melt the snow
Of Spring-time hedges, and to drench
With black the blue clear heavens show…
And I have wept for you.