Spring In War-Time / Edith Nesbit

Now the sprinkled blackthorn snow

Lies along the lovers' lane

Where last year we used to go -

Where we shall not go again.

In the hedge the buds are new,

By our wood the violets peer -

Just like last year's violets, too,

But they have no scent this year.

Every bird has heart to sing

Of its nest, warmed by its breast;

We had heart to sing last spring,

But we never built our nest.

Presently red roses blown

Will make all the garden gay . . .

Not yet have the daisies grown

On your clay.