My lover died a century ago,
Her dear heart stricken by my sland'rous breath,
Wherefore the Gods forbade that I should know
The peace of death.
Men pass my grave, and say, "'Twere well to sleep,
Like such an one, amid the uncaring dead!"
How should they know the vigils that I keep,
The tears I shed?
Upon the grave, I count with lifeless breath,
Each night, each year, the flowers that bloom and die,
Deeming the leaves, that fall to dreamless death,
More blest than I.
'Twas just last year -- I heard two lovers pass
So near, I caught the tender words he said:
To-night the rain-drenched breezes sway the grass
Above his head.
That night full envious of his life was I,
That youth and love should stand at his behest;
To-night, I envy him, that he should lie
At utter rest.
John McCrae's Other Poems
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(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(13 February 1879 - 2 March 1949)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow