The golden crocus blows again,
But oh so different seems its brightness now!
I see it through a mist of pain:
The leaves seem altered on each budding bough.

Yea, all things take their colour from our thought:
The radiant waves
Will flash their countless gems for nought
On eyes that dream of graves.

So must it ever be.
I saw the flowers, the summer skies,
The splendour of the sea,
Not through my own, but through my mother's eyes.