I wear a snow-white rose today
— In sacred memory,
In silent tribute to the love
— My mother bore for me.

The fairest flower will fade and die,
— But deeds live on for aye;
A life well lived shows proof of love
— Far more than words we say.

So I would live from day to day
— That all my life shall be
A living tribute to that love —
— A faithful memory.

I wear a snow-white rose today
In sacred memory,
In silent tribute to the love
My mother bore for me.

The fairest flower will fade and die,

I watched thee when the foe was at our side,
Ready to strike at him--or thee and me,
Were safety hopeless--rather than divide
Aught with one loved save love and liberty.

I watched thee on the breakers, when the rock
Received our prow and all was storm and fear,
And bade thee cling to me through every shock;
This arm would be thy bark, or breast thy bier.

I watched thee when the fever glazed thine eyes,
Yielding my couch, and stretched me on the ground
When overworn with watching, ne'er to rise

I WAS foretold your rebel sex
Nor love nor pity knew;
And with what scorn you use to vex
Poor hearts that humbly sue.
Yet I believed, to crown our pain,
Could we the fortress win,
The happy lover sure should gain
A paradise within:
I thought Love's plagues, like dragons, sat
Only to fright us at the gate.

But I did enter, and enjoy
What happy lovers prove;
For I could kiss, and sport, and toy,
And taste those sweets of love,
Which, had they but a lasting state,
Or if in Celia's breast

I want to die while you love me,
— — While yet you hold me fair,
While laughter lies upon my lips
— — And lights are in my hair.

I want to die while you love me,
— — And bear to that still bed,
Your kisses turbulent, unspent,
— — To warm me when I'm dead.

I want to die while you love me,
— — Oh, who would care to live
Till love has nothing more to ask
— — And nothing more to give!

I want to die while you love me
— — And never, never see
The glory of this perfect day
— — Grow dim or cease to be.

I walked one day on a lonely road,
My soul in deep despair.
I sought in vain to loose the load,
That sin, my sin, had planted there.

When in the distance I perceived,
A man bent low with care.
He bore in agony a cross,
That sin, my sin, had planted there.

I cried aloud as He drew near,
His hands were pierced and torn.
His grief so far outweighed my own,
And I had dared to mourn.

His eyes of love were turned on me,
His voice was soft and free.
" Why bear you still the load I took,
Through death on Calvary? "

I vow to thee, my country — all earthly things above —
Entire and whole and perfect, the service of my love,
The love that asks no question: the love that stands the test,
That lays upon the altar the dearest and the best:
The love that never falters, the love that pays the price,
The love that makes undaunted the final sacrifice.
And there's another country, I've heard of long ago —
Most dear to them that love her, most great to them that know —
We may not count her armies; we may not see her King —

I took leave of my beloved one evening: how I wish
I had rather tasted death than been away from him!
I find that even the sun complains of love for him,
And the doves weep with the pain of loving him:
The evenings seem so feeble after he has left,
As if they also felt the pain of what I now suffer,
The breeze began to carry the feelings of our love,
And became soft with love, its breath grew fragrant,
The dew of the garden was mixed in the morning
With the sweet fragrance of remembrance of him,
The flowers are his mouth, the breeze his breath,

I shall say what inordinat love is:
The furiosite and wodness of minde,
A instinguible brenning fawting blis,
A gret hungre, insaciat to finde,
A dowcet ille, a ivell swetness blinde,
A right wonderfulle, sugred, swete errour,
Withoute labour rest, contrary to kinde,
Or withoute quiete to have huge labour.

I send you here a wreath of blossoms blown,
And woven flowers at sunset gathered,
Another dawn had seen them ruined, and shed
Loose leaves upon the grass at random strown.
By this, their sure example, be it known,
That all your beauties, now in perfect flower,
Shall fade as these, and wither in an hour.
Flowerlike, and brief of days, as the flower sown.

Ah, time is flying, lady, — time is flying;
Nay, 'tis not time that flies but we that go,
Who in short space shall be in churchyard lying,
And of our loving parley none shall know,

I saw a Vision yesternight
Enough to sate a Seeker's sight,
I wish'd my self a shaker there,
And her quick Pants my trembling Sphere.
It was a She so glittering bright,
You'd think her Soul an Adamite,
A Person of so rare a frame,
Her Body might be lin'd with th' same.
Beautie's chiefest Maid of Honour,
You may break Lent with looking on her.
Not the fair Abbess of the Skies
With all her Nunnery of Eyes
Can shew me such a glorious Prize.