Isa (Craig) Knox (1831–1903)

THOU art the flower of grief to me,

’Tis in thy flavor!

Thou keepest the scent of memory,

A sickly savor.

In the moonlight, under the orchard tree,

Thou wert plucked and given to me,

For a love favor.

In the moonlight, under the orchard tree,

Ah, cruel flower!

Thou wert plucked and given to me,

While a fruitless shower

Of blossoms rained on the ground where grew

The woodruffe bed all wet with dew,

In the witching hour.

Under the orchard tree that night

Thy scent was sweetness,

And thou, with thy small star clusters bright,

Of pure completeness,

Shedding a pearly lustre bright,

Seemed as I gazed in the meek moonlight

A gift of meetness.

“It keeps the scent for years,” said he

(And thou hast kept it);

“And when you scent it, think of me.”

(He could not mean thus bitterly.)

Ah! I had swept it

Into the dust where dead things rot,

Had I then believed his love was not

What I have wept it.

Between the leaves of this holy book,

O flower undying!

A worthless and withered weed in look,

I keep thee lying.

The bloom of my life with thee was plucked,

And a close-pressed grief its sap hath sucked,

Its strength updrying.

Thy circles of leaves, like pointed spears,

My heart pierce often;

They enter, it inly bleeds, no tears

The hid wounds soften;

Yet one will I ask to bury thee

In the soft white folds of my shroud with me,

Ere they close my coffin.