Classic Poem

For Beatrice a red rose, and a white
For thee, — and for my wife a violet fair.
Let petals of such flowers caress the air
Above my grave, when summer suns shine bright. —
Red for the day, — the snowy for the night, —
The purple for the eve or early morn:
By tender hands let such three plants be borne
Towards the green hillock where in still delight
The poet sleeps, life's mantle off him torn,
Waiting the resurrection and its might.
— Earth had for him not much besides its scorn:
Love found his soul, then left that soul forlorn:
But death hath rapture! Where in grievous plight
He sowed, behold the interminable corn!