by Amy Lowell

Amy Lowell

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 mosaic of life; its blues and grays,

Its throbbing 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 soften all your ways.

But now my letters are like blossoms pale

We strew upon a grave with hopeless tears.

I ask no recompense, I shall not fail

Although you do not heed; the long, sad years

Still pass, and still I scatter flowers frail,

And whisper words of love which no one hears.