Poetry Archives

The bride, she wears a white, white rose—the plucking it was mine;
The poet wears a laurel wreath—and I the laurel twine;
And oh, the child, your little child, that’s clinging close to you,
It laughs to wear my violets—they are so sweet and blue!

And I, I have a wreath to wear—ah, never rue nor thorn!
I sometimes think that bitter wreath could be more sweetly worn!
For mine is made of ghostly bloom, of what I can’t forget—
The fallen leaves of other crowns—rose, laurel, violet!