WHAT shall we do now, Mary being dead, Or say or write that shall express the half? What can we do but pillow that fair head, And let the Spring-time write her epitaph!-- As it will soon, in snowdrop, violet, Wind-flower and columbine and maiden's tear; Each letter of that pretty alphabet, That spells in flowers the pageant of the year. She was a maiden for a man to love; She was a woman for a husband's life; One that has learned to value, far above The name of love, the sacred name of wife. Her little life-dream, rounded so with sleep, Had all there is of life, except gray hairs, -- Hope, love, trust, passion, and devotion deep; And that mysterious tie a mother bears. She hath fulfilled her promise and hath passed; Set her down gently at the iron door! Eyes look on that loved image for the last: Now cover it in earth, -- her earth no more. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A LITTLE GIRL LOST, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE THE WAYS OF TIME by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES ESTONIAN BRIDAL SONG by JOHANN GOTTFRIED VON HERDER FIDELIS by ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER ASTROPHEL AND STELLA: 110 by PHILIP SIDNEY THE CENTENARIAN'S STORY by WALT WHITMAN |