Маргарет Деленд (Margaret Deland)

The Myrtle

ITS clinging, mournful leaves, I said,
    Seem made to thatch a grave, 
Around the roots of cypress-trees
    Too deep in gloom for sun or breeze, 
I yet must fancy, scarce dreamt by thee
    It lives to mourn the dead.

But when I kissed her name, I saw,
    Above the dear, dead maid, 
A starry flower of tender blue,
A bit of heaven, shining through
    The leaves upon her grave! 

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