I br br The first rose on my rose-tree br Budded, bloomed, and shattered, br During sad days when to me br Nothing mattered. br br Grief of grief has drained me clean; br Still it seems a pity br No one saw, -- it must have been br Very pretty. br br II br br Let the little birds sing; br Let the little lambs play; br Spring is here; and so 'tis spring; -- br But not in the old way! br br I recall a place br Where a plum-tree grew; br There you lifted up your face, br And blossoms covered you. br br If the little birds sing, br And the little lambs play, br Spring is here; and so 'tis spring -- br But not in the old way! br br III br br All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree! br Ere spring was going -- ah, spring is gone! br And there comes no summer to the like of you and me, -- br Blossom time is early, but no fruit sets on.