The Myrtle

ITS clinging, mournful leaves, I said,

Seem made to thatch a grave,

Around the roots of cypress-trees

Too deep in gloom for sun or breeze,

I yet must fancy, scarce dreamt by thee

It lives to mourn the dead.

But when I kissed her name, I saw,

Above the dear, dead maid,

A starry flower of tender blue,

A bit of heaven, shining through

The leaves upon her grave!

Margaret Deland