She Wore a Wreath of Roses

by Thomas Haynes Bayly

She wore a wreath of roses
  The night that first we met;
Her lovely face was smiling
  Beneath her curls of jet.
Her footstep had the lightness,
  Her voice the joyous tone,—
The tokens of a youthful heart,
  Where sorrow is unknown.
I saw her but a moment,
  Yet methinks I see her now,
With the wreath of summer flowers
  Upon her snowy brow.
 
A wreath of orange-blossoms,
  When next we met, she wore;
The expression of her features
  Was more thoughtful than before;
And standing by her side was one
  Who strove, and not in vain,
To soothe her, leaving that dear home
  She ne’er might view again.
I saw her but a moment,
  Yet methinks I see her now,
With the wreath of orange-blossoms
  Upon her snowy brow.
 
And once again I see that brow;
  No bridal-wreath is there,
The widow’s sombre cap conceals
  Her once luxuriant hair.
She weeps in silent solitude,
  And there is no one near
To press her hand within his own,
  And wipe away the tear.
I see her broken-hearted;
  Yet methinks I see her now,
In the pride of youth and beauty,
  With a garland on her brow.