Роберт Уильямс Бьюкенен (Robert Williams Buchanan)

Roses

Sad, and sweet, and wise,
Here a child reposes,
Dust is on his eyes,
Quietly he lies -
Satan, strew Roses!

Weeping low, creeping slow,
Came the Weary-Wingèd!
Roses red over the dead
Quietly he flingèd.

'I am old', he thought,
'And the world's day closes;
Pale and fever-fraught,
Sadly have I brought
These blood-red Roses.'

By his side the mother came
Shudderingly creeping;
The Devil's and the woman's heart
Bitterly were weeping.

'Swift he came and swift he flew,
Hopeless he reposes;
Waiting on is weary too, -
Wherefore on his grave we strew
Bitter, withering Roses.'

The Devil gripped the woman's heart,
With gall he staunched its bleeding;
Par away, beyond the day,
The Lord heard interceding.

'Lord God, One in Three!
Sure Thy anger closes;
Yesterday I died, and see
The Weary-Wingèd over me
Bitterly streweth Roses.'

The voice cried out, 'Rejoice! rejoice!
There shall be sleep for evil!'
And all the sweetness of God's voice
Passed strangely through the Devil.

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