The Myrtle Poem by Margaret Deland
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!
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5/19/2024 12:32:13 PM # 1.0.0.1119
