WIDOWED.
295
When the warm and crimson fountain Of your being ceased to play.
I have stood to-day, my darling, Where the low green branches waveAbove the marble sentinel That watches by your grave.And where the boughs were bending down Above your sad, sweet rest,Some little birds had builded Such a dainty, pretty nest.
The shining sun of summer Came and crowned your sleeping clayLike a heavenly benediction As I sadly turned away;Your name upon the marble In the golden glory shone,Writing on my heart the record That I faced the world alone.
