'Aftermath'

(Amy Lowell, 1874-1925)

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.

It's 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.