Lost

In the light of her springtide morn she stood,
A love-flower held to her breast,
And lightning was leaping through her blood,
And sore was her heart distrest.
"O flower," she said, "is thy perfume rare
To madden me thus with pain?"
"Dear heart," said the flower, "by Vesper pray'r
Thou wilt be merry again."
Thou art fair, O flow'r; but thy petals sting,
And the Vesper hour is gray."
"Dear heart," said the flower, "ere Vespers ring
Thou wilt carol a joyous lay."
Alas for the flower: she flung it afar
Ere the light went out of the sky.
It fell where the briars and dank weeds are
That the River of Death flows by.
And, clutched by foul hands, and tossed by wan waves,
The flower was swept to the main;
But ever in passing by new-made graves,
At her heart was the oldtime pain.