Last Hope

Beside a humble stone, a tree Floats in the cemetery’s air, Not planted in memoriam there, But growing wild, uncultured, free. A bird comes perching there to sing, Winter and summer, proffering Its faithful song—sad, bittersweet. That tree, that bird are you and I: You, memory; absence, me, that tide And time record. Ah, by your side To live again, undying! Aye, To live again! But ma petite, Now nothingness, cold, owns my flesh. . . Will your love keep my memory fresh?