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Old-Fashioned Widow's Song

She handed me a gay bouquet
Of roses pulled in the rain,
Delicate beauties, frail and cold—
Could roses heal my pain?

She smiled: “Ah, c'est un triste temps!”
I laughed and answered “Yes,”
Pressing the roses in my palms.
How could the roses guess?

She sang: “Madame est seule?” Her eye
Snapped like a rain-washed berry.
How could the solemn roses tell
Which of us was more merry?

She turned to go: she stopped to chat;
“Adieu!” at last she cried.
“Mille mercis pour ces jolies fleurs!” …
At that the roses died.

The petals drooped, the petals fell,
The leaves hung crisped and curled.
And I stood holding my dead bouquet
In a dead world.

1919.

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