She never saw the flowers
That were hers from their first sweet hours.
The roses, the pinks, and the dark heartsease
Died in my garden, ungathered, forlorn.
Only the jasmine, the lilies, the white, white rose,
They were gathered—to honour and sorrow born.
They lay round her, touched her close.
The jasmine stars—white stars, that about our window
their faint light shed,
Lay round her head.