Classic Poem

[ A. W. B. ]

The violets are growing on her grave
Who last year gave me roses dewy-cool,
Saying, " Take these, dear heart, and these: to have
And not bestow, were but a sorry rule. "

And so she rained them on me as she clung
To the light lattice, — clusters red and white
And palest pink, in musky showers down-flung,
Till the June air grew moist with coming night.

And now she lies the violets below,
And June, with all its roses, cannot stir
One pulse of her sweet being: let them go!
They bloom in vain for me, since not for her.

And yet not quite in vain, my heart, — not quite;
For when these buds, slow-trembling into bloom,
Open their bosoms to the soft June light
Gilding alike their beauty and her tomb,

'T will be my turn to pluck them; I shall go
With brimful hands, some June day, where she lies,
And shower them o'er her, weeping: will she know
The sweet requital in those far-off skies?