The South Kentuckian

[For The South Kentuckian]
"ASHES OF ROSES."
Velvet lipped messengers, roses of spring,
What do you bring for me, what do you sing?
The joy of our beauty, its brilliance of hue,
The wealth of our fragrance, the glitter of dew,
The promise of summer, the glory of spring,
To gladden the hearts of earth's children we bring.
There bright lavish gifts, for the many may be,
But more than all these do you bring unto me.
Your red leaves are written all over with legends,
That call back the past from its shadowy regions,
And the scent of your blossoms of snow and amber,
Wake the dim ghosts of the soul's haunted chamber.
And the joys and the sorrows of summers long gone,
Drift by, as your leaves on the breezes are borne,
While memory goes back to the years that are fled,
And all your fair sisters that bloomed and are dead,
Since I stole, in my childhood, all breathless to peep
At the fairies I thought 'neath your flowers asleep:
And wove in the dawn of my womanhood fair,
Your buds into garlands to twine round my hair,
And gloried to think that a flower I caressed,
Was worn as a trophy and cherished and pressed,
And blushed o'er the sonnets that rashly presumed
To liken my lips and my cheeks to your bloom.
We are queens in our girlhood and recklessly play
With the heartstrings of men, as our fingers might stray
'Mid the chords of a harp, but are fain to lay down
With the white bridal roses, our scepter and crown
To take up the sad, earnest duties of life:
The sobs over pleasure of mother and wife.
Since then I have laid you, oh roses, to rest,
In the chill, waxen fingers clasped o'er the breast
Of the loved and the lost and have taught ye to bloom
In all your wild loveliness over the tomb.
Have seen you all wet with the blood of the brave,
Shed freely, yet vainly, a country to save.
And bathed with the bitterest tears of those
Who envied the dead in their blessed repose.
Thus all your bright blossoms of crimson and snow
Are darkened by shadows that fell long ago.
On the white lies the pallor of death, and the red
Seems stained with the blood of the valiant dead,
While the dew-drops that shine on each crumpled leaf
Recall the vain tears of our passionate grief.
Keen sorrow is blent with the gladness ye bring,
The thorn with the flowers, oh roses of spring!
M.W.M.