Classic Poem

" What shall I give him? " So a maiden said —
" With brave pure labour he sang songs of me;
What shall my final tear-touched token be,
Now that he lies pale, voiceless, heedless, dead?
Shall it be some ripe rose of loveliest red,
Or snowdrop drooping petals tenderly,
Or blue-grey valiant thistle from the sea
Beside whose waves our wandering steps were led? "

So doubted she: but then there came a voice,
An audible direction from the air,
Saying, " Thy first thought was the seemlier choice;
No snow-white name I gave to him to bear,
In no calm crown of lilies to rejoice,
But my rose-wreathed intensity to share. "