Blossom of Life

SO now she lies silent and sweet
 With white flowers at her head and feet,
 And she, the fairest flower, between.
 The bud that with her bosom's swell
 In dear delight once rose and fell
 Now wafts her all it has to tell,
 And wonders why she sleeps serene.  
  And yet in life how small a part,
 With pretty face and petty heart,
 She played! And in that form so fair
 There never dwelt a deep desire,
 Her bosom never thrilled a-fire:
 She loved too lightly e'en to tire—
 And all my heart was meant for her.  
  Was there a soul within those eyes
 That seemed to speak my dear surmise,
 That with no tears were ever wet?
 Through life she laughed her careless way,
 She knew not sorrow or dismay—
 And I have sorrowed day by day,
 While those pale lips are smiling yet!  
  And so she lies on her small bed,
 With white flowers at her feet and head,
 And she, the fairest flower between!
 
 In life how false the little  rôle —
 The peerless face, the paltry soul!
 But she is perfect now—the whole
 Pale blossom of the Might-Have-Been.