Classic Poem

I saw a picture of a soldier low
Upon some grisly battle-field. Tall firs
Above him smote the sky with rigid spurs;
Death reigned: and silent blood was on the snow.
A woman's form stood by him, and she held
A wreath, and loth to give it, loth to go,
She seemed, — and it might be the pure tears welled
From her heart's depths. The picture did not show.

O sweet one, be thou unto me as she!
When I am lying dead upon life's snow,
Black trees above, and spots of blood below,
Come thou with the sweet song-wreath tenderly.
If but thy loving face o'er me be bent
At that still moment, — I shall be content.