RELICS

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The violets that you gave are dead,
They could not bear the loss of you;
The spirit of the rose has fled
It loved you, and its love was true.
Back to your lips that spirit flies,
To bask beneath your radiant eyes.

Only the ashes bide with me,
The ahses of the ruined flower-
Types of a rapture not to be,
Sad relics of bewildering hours,
Poor, frail, forlorn, and piteous shows
Of errant passion's wasted woes.

He grandly loves who loves in vain!
These withered flowers that lesson teach,
Their life was love too great for speech.
In silent pride their fate they bore;
They loved, they grieved, they died-no more.

Far off the purple banners flare,
Beneath the golden morning spread;
I know what queen is worshipped there,
What laurels wreathe her lovely head.
Her name be sacred in my thought,
And sacred be the grief she brought!

For since I saw that glorious face,
and heard the music of that voice,
Much beauty's fallen to disgrace
That used to make my heart rejoice:
And rose and violets ne'er can be
The same that once they were to me.

by William Winter

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