I saw the ghost of violets,
haunting the night of grey;
a spirit of the old, green world
that man had walled away.
I heard the eery whisper
of ancient blades and leaves
and birds, of vanished woodlands,
that only seemed to grieve.
A red carpet of roses
suddenly stained the road,
then, over every wall and fence,
the blood red flowers flowed.
Then, horrid murder visions;
Spring smothered by asphalt,
fume poisoned and fence strangled;
and the wind wailing , “your fault”.
