Classic Poem

We two were playmates, — Rosalie
Had lived full three years more than I.
One wild March day she said to me,
" Sweet, would you grieve if I should die? "

The black cock clapped his wings and crew
Loud, from the willow overhead:
I laughed for the good sign — she drew
Her gold hair through her hands and said,

The while the tears came, " We shall play
Under these boughs no more! " Alas!
I know now that she saw that day
The daises in the churchyard grass.

I tried to see the squirrel climb
The silver beech-bole, — tried to see
The bees, thick-flying, — all the time
My eyes were fixed on Rosalie.

A week or more the March had worn
Upon the April's flowery way, —
And pale, and all her long locks shorn,
On our low bed sweet Rosy lay.

Across her pillow in bright strands
I saw them fall (and wept to see),
The self-same way her little hands
Had twined them 'neath the willow tree.

I had been with her all the night;
Softly she slept the time away.
In the wet woods before the light
The little brown birds sang for day.

Over the locks that lay across
The pillow where so well she slept,
Long years has grown the churchyard moss, —
One golden tangle only, kept.