“Dear brother, dearest friend, when I am dead,
And you shall see no more this face of mine,
Let nothing but red roses be the sign
Of the white life I lost for him,” she said;
“No, do not curse him,-pity him instead;
Forgive him!-forgive me! . . God's anodyne
For human hate is pity; and the wine
That makes men wise, forgiveness. I have read
Love's message in love's murder, and I die.”
And so they laid her just where she would lie,-
Under red roses. Red they bloomed and fell;
But when flushed autumn and the snows went by,
And spring came,-lo, from every bud's green shell
Burst a white blossom.-Can love reason why?