Sad, sad, sad—
    ⁠In vain thou comest, Spring;
Sad, sad, sad—
    ⁠⁠In vain thy birds all sing:
    ⁠    ⁠⁠Perfumeless is thy rose;
⁠    ⁠    ⁠Thy breeze, which softly blows,
    ⁠    ⁠⁠Disturbs my sea of woes,
⁠Ay, Death is on the wing.

Gone, gone, gone—
    ⁠⁠Go seek her, mocking Spring;
Gone, gone, gone—
    ⁠⁠Aside thy garlands fling;
    ⁠    ⁠⁠Destroy thy laughing bower;
    ⁠    ⁠⁠Call back an April shower
⁠    ⁠    ⁠To weep with me this hour:
He came, not reckoning.

Love, love, love—
    ⁠⁠What sendest thou with Spring?
Love, love, love—
⁠    ⁠What tidings these birds bring!
    ⁠    ⁠⁠They tell me they can hear
⁠    ⁠    ⁠Thee, in a higher sphere;
⁠    ⁠    ⁠But can that dry a tear,
Or give my wish a wing?

From Myrtle and Myrrh (The Gorham Press, 1905) by Ameen Rihani. This poem is in the public domain.