Classic Poem

It was a sad, mysterious joy,
The poet gave his buried friend,
That to his country's native flower
His mouldering corse should beauty lend.

Grief, to sublime of passion wrought,
A Guardian at thy tomb shall stand,
“And, from thine ashes may be made
The violet of thy native land.”

It were a thought of bitterness,
In height and flush of life, to know
That, from our forms exanimate
Some baneful poison plant should grow.

Thus, happier he to whose lone grave
Nor Love, nor Fame, its tribute gives,
Than who, illustrious, leaves a seed
To harm the simplest soul that lives.