My snowy eupatorium has dropped 
Its silver threads of petals in the night; 
No signal told its blossoming had stopped; 
Its seed-films flutter silent, ghostly white: 
No answer stirs the shining air, 
As I ask, "Where?" 

Beneath the glossy leaves of winter-green 
Dead lilly-bells lie low, and in their place 
A rounded disk of pearly pink is seen, 
Which tells not of the lily's fragrant grace: 
No answer stirs the shining air, 
As I ask, "Where?" 

This morning's sunrise does not show to me 
Seed-film or fruit of my sweet yesterday; 
Like falling flowers, to realms I cannot see 
Its moments floated silently away: 
No answer stirs the shining air, 
As I ask, "Where?"