I beg the pardon of these flowers
For bringing them to one whose hair
Alone doth shame, beyond compare,
The sweetest blooms of richest bowers.
I beg the pardon of this maid
For offering them with hand less pure,
A heart less perfect, needing cure
By Love’s own music, softly played.
[The Death of Lincoln.]
1.
WHEN lilacs last in the door-yard bloomed,
And the great star early drooped in the western sky in the night,
I mourned and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.
Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,
Lilacs blooming perennial, and drooping star in the west,
And thought of him I love.
