I AM not used to sorrow. Until now
I have lain softly, lulled in happy years,
My eyes are puzzled by the smart of tears;
Pain finds no throne made ready on my brow,
I have not learnt yet how the head should bow
When the sad heart is weighted with its fears;
Grey Grief walks near me, but she still appears
As one apart from me: I know not how.

All flowers do not die in Winter's frost,
Some few live bravely till the Spring shall come:
Pale Christmas rose and faint chrysanthemum
Survive, sometimes, the highest snowdrift tost.
Let me still smile: since Death cannot benumb
Remembered Love, and Love was never lost.