For I have seen them clad for spring,
When May blooms reddened fair;
The shadow of a mourner's veil
Was o'er Anita s hair.
The robing of an orphan child
Above a torn heart stirred,
And a little cry of bitter woe
Was the weary sound I heard.
I saw sweet Myrtle white and still,
Like a little child at rest;
No roses nodded o'er her brow,
But lay on a stirless breast ;
No azure robe about her fell,
But white, like sunless snow.
These were the robes the maidens wore
When jonquils ceased to blow.
ONE TO LOSE, BUT THREE TO MOURN.
ONLY one small name, graven deep in stone,
Where the myrtle creeps o'er the churchyard sod,
Or hides itself from the beaten path
By the faithful foot of a mourner trod.
But a mother's wail on the air goes by,
Over myrtle stars, through the cypress tree:
" Only one I know for the grave to hold,
And for God to keep, yet I mourn for three.
