It doesn't matter much, I know, br In all this world of grief and woe, br That one small girl of half-past four br Is never watching any more, br Or runs with happy, eager feet br To meet me coming down the street. br br It doesn't matter much at all br That I shall never hear her call, br Or wave a bunch of wilted flowers br She picked to deck this room of ours, br Or hear her tell with sobbing breath br About a tiny robin's death.