71. red, White, and Blue.
by Theodore Tilton.I.
Red cypress! Thee I pluck to-day.
All flowers have meaning, poets say.
The legend of thy leaf
Is death, the grave, and grief.
Thou growest for the sake
Of all the hearts that break;
But since so many hearts have bled,
Thy flower hath turned blood-red.
Thee on my breast I wear,
For now a heart bleeds there.
White rose! Why pluck I not the red?
The red rose speaks of love:
--And love I not my dead?
What speaks the white rose of?
Despair! Love's last despair!
This is the load I bear;
So I the white rose wear.
Blue harebell! Mute the knell
Of thy soft bell,
Yet each breath shakes it, as in toll
Of some departed soul.
Grief is thy second name;
Grief bendeth down thy head;
Grief boweth mine the same ;--
Who grieveth not for some one dead?
Grief's flower I wear upon my breast;
Grief is my heart's lone guest;
--But never yet was grief unblest!
So every weeper hath confess'd:
--So hath my heart its rest.