There’s one more Spring we never see,
One last Winter we must bear,
A final Autumn, gold and clear,
And one first Summer we’re not there.
My parents died, both, near this place.
In Winter time they each did pass;
And still, the Spring comes back each year,
The leaves, the flowers, and the grass —
And how is it — how can it be —
That grief is bigger than the sky
But still so small and heavy that
It fits, yet weighs so much