Lavender

How prone we are to hide and hoard Each little treasure time has stored,     To tell of happy hours! We lay aside with tender care A tattered book, a lock of hair,     A bunch of faded flowers. When death has led with silent hand Our darlings to the “Silent Land,”     Awhile we sit bereft; But time goes on; anon we rise, Our dead are buried from our eyes,     We gather what is left. The books they loved, the songs they sang, The little flute whose music rang     So cheerily of old; The pictures we had watched them paint, The last plucked flower, with odor faint,     That fell from fingers cold. We smooth and fold with reverent care The robes they living used to wear;     And painful pulses stir As o’er the relics of our dead, With bitter rain of tears, we spread     Pale purple lavender. And when we come in after years, With only tender April tears     On cheeks once white with care, To look on treasures put away Despairing on that far-off day,     A subtile scent is there. Dew-wet and fresh we gather them, These fragrant flowers; now every stem     Is bare of all its bloom: Tear-wet and sweet we strewed them here To lend our relics, sacred, dear,     Their beautiful perfume. The scent abides on book and lute, On curl and flower, and with its mute     But eloquent appeal     It wins from us a deeper sob For our lost dead, a sharper throb     Than we are wont to feel. It whispers of the “long ago;” Its love, its loss, its aching woe,     And buried sorrows stir; And tears like those we shed of old Roll down our cheeks as we behold     Our faded lavender.