174
A WITHERED FLOWER.
Again I stand beside you, dear, Your chilling hands I hold,Again my kisses fall upon Your brow so damp and cold.
Once more I feel the trembling clasp Your fingers gave to mine,And see the last, last beam of love, Beneath your lashes shine.
These faded leaflets bring again Your dead face back to me,The darkened room, the quiet hands, The pale, still form I see.
That first great shock of agony Seems folded in this flower,And all the bitter grief of time Condensed in that one hour.
I lift the leaves with tender touch, And hot tears falling fast,The faint, sweet perfume seems to breathe A soft sigh from the past.
