J. S. Machar
"And I," the tender lily speaks, "want
My flowers that precious gloss to own
That 'dorns her breast of snow. Pray, recant,
O Casket! Hear the plaint I moan l"
"The lips purple!" the peony cries;
The rosemary, "The hair's sweet scent."
"O casket, grant our prayers. Sudden rise
Our throngs of flowers in bloom. Relentl
"To let this belle thus fade in her tomb,
In blinding night—a sin at best.
We'll lift her to the sun, and she'll loom
Aloft upon each gayest crest!"
And with a sinister chuckle, slow
The hemlock rose—before all hid:
"I seek the heart. Didst ye forget? Ho!
The poison for my flowers I bid."
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