The Valentine

by Lizette Woodworth Reese

Against this thorny Present shows
Your memory like the dew;
Each maid a wrinkled Beauty goes,
When I do think of you.

Folded away in the deep grass,
What is it can befall?
Nor Clouds that fade, nor Gusts that pass,
Nor any Grief at all.

Now lovers write their verses brave;
Now buds start on the tree;
But Love went with you to the grave,
The sere leaf bides with me.

I have not any word save this;
My tears are all my store;
The fairer that the weather is
I miss you but the more.

Last updated March 28, 2023