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.