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! |