Dorothea Mackellar




An Old Song

The almond blossom is overpast, the apple blossoms blow.
      I never loved but one man, and I never told him so.

My flowers will never come to fruit, but I have kept my pride -
      A little, cold, and lonely thing, and I have naught beside.

The spring-wind caught my flowering dreams, they lightly blew away.
     I never had but one true love, and he died yesterday.