Am I kin to Sorrow, That so oft Falls the knocker of my door-- Neither loud nor soft, But as long accustomed, Under Sorrow's hand?

Marigolds around the step And rosemary stand, And then comes Sorrow-- And what does Sorrow care For the rosemary Or the marigolds there?

Am I kin to Sorrow?

Are we kin?

That so oft upon my door-- *Oh, come in*!

I

The first rose on my rose-tree Budded, bloomed, and shattered, During sad days when to me Nothing mattered.

Grief of grief has drained me clean;

Still it seems a pity No one saw, -- it must have been Very pretty.

II

Let the little birds sing;

Let the little lambs play;

Spring is here; and so 'tis spring;-- But not in the old way!

I recall a place Where a plum-tree grew;

There you lifted up your face, And blossoms covered you.

If the little birds sing, And the little lambs play, Spring is here; and so 'tis spring-- But not in the old way!

III

All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree!

Ere spring was going -- ah, spring is gone!

And there comes no summer to the like of you and me,-- Blossom time is early, but no fruit sets on.

All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree, Browned at the edges, turned in a day;

And I would with all my heart they trimmed a mound for me, And weeds were tall on all the paths that led that way!