I see them yet, with hair like braided light,
And eyes like purple pansies, wet with dew.
Could I have known, could I have but foreseen
How near the pearly gates their feet had won,
How had I clasped those hands my hands between—
Those tiny hands, whose little work is done.
Calm graves, lapped in sweet grasses, cool and deep,
Where soft winds sing and whisper through all hours:
O starry flowers, for me Love’s vigil keep,
With scent and shadow and sweet-dropping flowers.