Emily Pfeiffer

(1827-1890 / England)

Song I


Why art thou silent when each bird
And every freshet sings?
Poor heart, hast thou alone no word
To mingle with the spring's?
No faintest word; the spring that gives
But gladdens whom it dowers;
On every tree there come young leaves,
To every field fresh flowers.
Spring gives to every flower a bee,
For every flower is fair;
But spring has now no gift for me,
And dumb is my despair.

Submitted: Tuesday, October 12, 2010
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