by Theodore Tilton
These roses, planted on her grave, have blown:
Her memory, still too fresh for graven stone,
Endures as written on our hearts alone.
O loving friend! when thee we hither bore,
Dim were our eyes, and black the weeds we wore:
Our grief hath since grown less -- our love grown more.
Sweet gift of God!* whose gift we could not keep! --
If ever angels watch where willows weep,
A wall of folded wings shall guard thy sleep!
Gift of God.
Source:The Sexton's Tale, And Other Poems.
Sheldon And Company, New York.