Classic Poem

Under the coffin-lid there are roses:
They bud like dreams in the sleep of the dead;
And the long, vague dark that around them closes
Is flush'd and sweet with their glory of red.

From the buried seeds of love they blossom,
All crimson-stain'd from its blood they start;
And each sleeper wears them on his bosom,
Clasp'd over the pallid dust of his heart.

When the Angel of Morning shall shake the slumber
Away from the graves with his lighted wings,
He will gather thoses roses, an infinite number,
And bear them to Heaven, the beautiful things!