Piano Antico

The pomegranate green in the garden,
Towards which thy baby hands
Thou didst reach out, still stands,
The tree of the scarlet flower.

The orchard now lonely and silent
Renews its green with spring;
And June once more will bring
Back light and warmth as her dower.

Blossom art thou of my tree, withered,
Struck by the cruel blast,
Of this vain life the last
Thou art, and its rarest flower.

Now 'neath the cold earth thou art lying,
Beneath the dark cold earth,
The sun brings thee no mirth,
To wake thee Love hath no power.