To a Violet Found on All Saints’ Day
Belated wanderer of the ways of spring,Lost in the chill of grim November rain,Would I could read the message that you bringAnd find in it the antidote for pain.
Does some sad spirit out beyond the day,Far looking to the hours forever dead,Send you a tender offering to layUpon the grave of us, the living dead?
Or does some brighter spirit, unforlorn,Send you, my little sister of the wood,To say to some one on a cloudful morn,“Life lives through death, my brother, all is good?”
With meditative hearts the others goThe memory of their dead to dress anew.But, sister mine, bide here that I may know,Life grows, through death, as beautiful as you.