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.

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