The last hyacinth of spring bloomed today,
Like a child born beautiful and sad.
I look back on all the joys I’ve had—
I sit with them, remembering, and pray.
Why is it, dear, that you never could stay?
Was it my poems that made you mad?
Or did I simply never make you glad?
I thought I could chase your demons away.
But, dear, how the time likes to pass us by.
Soon the rosebushes will be in flower;
My hyacinth will live, and then she’ll die
In her gloriously appointed hour.
What sadness in her death, and yet, my dove—
What longing, what sweetness, and, oh, what love.