Because her hand had wrought each petal white
And slender, emerald stem. The falling night
Was lit for her with many a memory
Of little things she could no longer see,
That had been with her in old, happy hours,
Before her girlish joys had taken flight
As morning dews from noon-unfolding flowers.
For her, with laggard pace the minutes trailed,
Till night seemed to eternity outdrawn.
At last, an hour before the summer-dawn,