2
What can death send me
that you have not?
you gathered violets,
you spoke:
“your hair is not less black,
nor less fragrant,
nor in your eyes is less light,
your hair is not less sweet
with purple in the lift of lock;”
why were those slight words
and the violets you gathered
of such worth?
How I envy you death;
what could death bring,
more black, more set with sparks
to slay, to affright,
than the memory of those first violets,
the chance lift of your voice,
the chance blinding frenzy
as you bent?