THE SICKLE OF FLOWERS.
The last sad rites of death performed,
The sickle lies upon the grave;
The sickle made of blooming flowers
That the ruthless reaper clave.
Withered lie the flowers gathered,
Rusts the sickle on the ground;
Dead the blossoms now decaying,—
And the form within the mound!
Oh the flowers of the sickle
And the blooms upon its blade
Are decaying daily, daily—
Sweetest flowers soonest fade!
Oh the sickle is death’s emblem
And the flowers on it, rust!—
Emblem of the end of mortals,
Earth to earth, and dust to dust!
[Scribbled in about five minutes on the back of an old envelope while sitting by a new-made grave on which was a sickle of flowers.]