Classic Poem

Seven years ago it was red
As the cactus that shed
On your bosom, last night,
Its warm crimson light.

The prettiest shawl in the world
I thought it was then, with its curled
Silken fringe, and the order
Of its prim narrow border.

Seven years it did duty;
But its bellehood and beauty
Long since passed away,
As old and passe .

What hopes and what fears,
What laughter and tears,
It has long ago seen
From its rich scarlet sheen!

Seven years its hue could compare
With the flower that you wear;
Seven years it bloomed, and then dyed
Its soft scarlet pride.

No more like the cactus you wear,
But black as the waves of your hair;
In place of the colors so fine,
Death's sad, solemn sign.

Every thread of its rose-colored youth
Steeped in the black, bitter truth
Which comes to us all
From the grave and the pall.

But stay, — the colors of Death
Are not only for dying breath:
Let them float over life and its pride,
Over hopes that have sickened and died,

Over temples that bleed under flowers
In terrible moments and hours,
When the thorn presses down
Through the fresh laurel crown,

Pressing out, drop by drop,
Without measure or stop,
The red costly wine
From the heart's bleeding vine.

Over homes let them wave,
Where a cold living grave
Buries peace day by day
In its dank poison clay;

Over doors where the want
Of gold brings a taunt,
And small secret stings
From a barbed arrow flings;

Over life's simplest state
Such a grim, gloomy fate,
That the heart, dumb with pain,
And too proud to complain,

Is bitterly hurled
Out, out on the world,
With faith lying dead
As a corpse in its bed;

Lying shrouded from sight,
Not in pure vestal white,
But in weeds of despair,
Black, black as your hair.

Yet memory sits
Where the black shadow flits,
And paints o'er anew
The red cactus hue,

Till in bright, bold relief
It stands out from its grief,
From its shroud and its pall,
Like the soft scarlet shawl.