A Dirge

She was as sweet as violets in the Spring,
As fair as any rose in Summer time:
But frail are roses in their prime
And violets in their blossoming.
Even so was she:
And now she lies,
The earth upon her fast closed eyes,
Dead in the darkness silently.

The sweet Spring violets never bud again,
The roses bloom and perish in a morn:
They see no second quickening lying lorn;
Their beauty dies as tho' in vain.
Must she die so
For evermore,
Cold as the sand upon the shore,
As passionless for joy and woe? —

Nay, she is worth much more than flowers that fade
And yet shall be made fair with purple fruit;
Branch of the Living Vine, Whose Root
From all eternity is laid.
Another Sun
Than this of our's,
Has withered up indeed her flowers
But ripened her grapes every one.
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