Aftermath by Amy Lowell

I learnt to write to you in happier days, / And every letter was a piece I chipped / From off my heart, a fragment newly clipped / From the mosaic of life; its blues and grays, / Its throbbing reds, I gave to earn your praise.

To make a pavement for your feet I stripped / My soul for you to walk upon, and slipped / Beneath your steps to soften all your ways.

But now my letters are like blossoms pale / We strew upon a grave with hopeless tears.

I ask no recompense, I shall not fail / Although you do not heed; the long, sad years / Still pass, and still I scatter flowers frail, / And whisper words of love which no one hears.