I Know Not How to Find the Spring

I know not how to find the Spring,
Though violets are here,
And in the boughs high over me
The birds are fluting clear;
The magic and the melody,
The rapture—all are fled,
And could they wake, they would but break
My heart, now you are dead.

poem by Florence Earle Coates from Mine and Thine (1904)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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