An Old Song

Dorothea Mackellar

 Next Poem          

The almond bloom is overpast, the apple blossoms blow.
I never loved but one man, and I never told him so.

My flowers will never come to fruit, but I have kept my pride -
A little, cold, and lonely thing, and I have naught beside.

The spring-wind caught my flowering dreams, they lightly blew away.
I never had but one true love, and he died yesterday.

Next Poem 

 Back to Dorothea Mackellar

To be able to leave a comment here you must be registered. Log in or Sign up.