White Roses

There was a rose-tree grew so high And white with all its seven roses, It seemed a cloud ’twixt earth and sky. There was one rose among the seven That grew alone on topmost bough, Like a white star caught down from heaven. I plucked it that it should not be Deflowered by rainy, wild west winds In all its white virginity. There was a little maiden dead In a dark room in a lone place— Two candles at her feet and head. Her two hands crossed upon her breast, Like frail rose petals, but more still— Glad to be folded thus at rest. Her pale lips smiling all the while, In such a solemn, perfect peace, Alas, as our lips never smile. I gave my white rose to the dead— It seemed less white than her young brow: The others wept—“Alas!” they said. I gave my white rose to the child, Both plucked in their young purity, And while the others wept I smiled.