A WEED, 
I WOULD BLOOM IF I COULD. 
Wild words wander here and there, 
God’s great gift of speech abused, 
Makes thy memory confused ; 
But let them rave ! 
The balm-cricket carols clear, 
In the green that folds thy grave— 
Let them rave !— Tennyson. 
When from our northern woods pale summer, flying, 
Breathes her last fragrant sigh—her low farewell— 
While her sad wild-flowers’ dewy eyes, in dying, 
Plead for her stay, in every nook and dell, 
A heart, that loved too tenderly and truly, 
Will break at last—and in some dim, sweet shade, 
They’ll smooth the sod o’er her you prized unduly, 
And leave her to the rest for which she prayed. 
Ah! trustfully, not mournfully, they’ll leave her, 
Assured that deep repose is welcomed well; 
The pure, glad breeze can whisper naught to grieve her, 
The brook’s low voice no wrongful tale can tell. 
They’ll hide her where no false one’s footstep, stealing, 
Can mar the chastened meekness of her sleep; 
Only to Love and Grief her grave revealing, 
And they will hush their chiding then —to weep! 
• 
And some—for though too 0 $ she erred, too blindly 
She was beloved—how fondly and how well! 
Some few, with faltering feet, will linger kindly, 
And plant dear flowers within that silent dell. 
I know whose fragile hand will bring the bloom 
Best loved by both—the violet—to that bower; 
And one will bid white lilies bless the gloom; 
And one—perchance—will plant the passion-flower! 
Then do thou come—when all the rest have parted— 
Thou, who alone dost know her soul’s deep gloom— 
And wreathe above the lost, the broken-hearted, 
Some idle weed —that knew not how to bloom. 
F. S. O. 
