Poems (Dorr)/Her Flowers
HER FLOWERS
"Nay, nay," she whispered low,"I will not have these buds of folded snow, Nor yet the pallid bloomOf the chill tuberose, heavy with perfume, Nor lilies waxen white,To go with her into the grave's dark night.
"But now that she is deadBring ye the royal roses blushing red, Roses that on her breastAll summer long, by these pale hands caressed, Have lain in happy calm,Breathing their lives away in bloom and balm!"
Roses for all the joyOf perfect hours when life had no alloy; When hope was glad and gay,And young Love sang his blissful roundelay; And to her eager eyesEach new day oped the gates of Paradise.
But, for that she hath wept,And over buried hopes long vigil kept, Bring mystic passion-flowers,To tell the tale of sacrificial hours When, lifting up her cross,She bore it bravely on through pain and loss!
Then at her blessèd feet,That never more shall haste on errands sweet, Lay fragrant mignonetteAnd fair sweet-peas in dainty garlands set,— Dear humble flowers, that makeEach passer-by the gladder for their sake!
For she who lieth hereTrod not alone the high paths shining clear, With light of star and sunFalling undimmed her lofty place upon; But stooped to lowliest ways,Filling with fragrance all the passing days!