Sorrow is my own yard br where the new grass br flames as it has flamed br often before but not br with the cold fire br that closes round me this year. br Thirtyfive years br I lived with my husband. br The plumtree is white today br with masses of flowers. br Masses of flowers br load the cherry branches br and color some bushes br yellow and some red br but the grief in my heart br is stronger than they br for though they were my joy br formerly, today I notice them br and turn away forgetting. br Today my son told me br that in the meadows, br at the edge of the heavy woods br in the distance, he saw br trees of white flowers. br I feel that I would like br to go there br and fall into those flowers br and sink into the marsh near them.