Classic Poem

I HAVE gathered the dewy roses,
The lily and columbine,
The ivy, and iris, and myrtle,
And pale sweet jessamine;
And out where some brave heart is lying
In an unmarked lonely place,
For his dear, dear sake, I will strew them,
Who slumbers at Rocky Face.

I woke when the odorous morning
Came royally from the gloom,
And I wept as my gay companions
Went culling from bloom to bloom;
Ah, little they know of the sighing.
And little of all the tears
That stifle the heart that is asking
The loves of its happy years!

And I thought of the last fond message
He sent in his hopeful way:
“But one little week, and I'm coming,
My Queen of the joyous May”
Now out in the wilds he is sleeping,
The where I may never see.
O May of the Mays!—the gladdest
And saddest of all to me!

I know not where they have laid him,
My gallant, my brave, my own,—
Out, out where the wild fern is growing,
And the pines through the long years moan;
And erst when the dead they have honored
With flowers and praiseful song,
I have lain in my darkened chamber
And murmured the whole day long.

But now I have gathered the flowers;
And out where the lonely dove
Is making lament I will strew them
O'er some other woman's love;
And may be in days that are coming,
With sorrow her sweet eyes dim,
Some other sad one will be strewing
May's beauteous blossoms o'er him.