A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass

Aftermath

          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.