I learnt to write to you in happier days,
And every letter was a piece I chipped
From off my heart, a fragment newly clipped
From the mosaic1 of life; its blues2 and grays,
Its throbbing3 reds, I gave to earn your praise.
To make a pavement for your feet I stripped
My soul for you to walk upon, and slipped
Beneath your steps to soften4 all your ways.
But now my letters are like blossoms pale
We strew5 upon a grave with hopeless tears.
I ask no recompense, I shall not fail
Although you do not heed6; the long, sad years
Still pass, and still I scatter7 flowers frail,
And whisper words of love which no one hears.
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