Agamede’s Song

GROW, grow, thou little tree,

His body at the roots of thee;

Since last year’s loveliness in death

The living beauty nourisheth.

Bloom, bloom, thou little tree,

Thy roots around the heart of me;

Thou canst not blow too white and fair

From all the sweetness hidden there.

Die, die, thou little tree,

And be as all sweet things must be;

Deep where thy petals drift I, too,

Would rest the changing seasons through.