Shrined in its midst, with folded hands, at rest,
Life's work all over ere 'twas well begun,
Lies a fair girl in snowy garments dressed,
And all the place with bud and bloom o'errun;
Pinks, roses, lilies, blend in odorous death,
But over all the tuberose sends its wealth,
Seeming to hold the lost one by its breath
While creeping o'er our living hearts in stealth.
O subtle blossoms, you are death's own flowers!
You have no part with love or festal hours.