William Benjamin Philpot (1823–1889)

OF all the flowers rising now,

Thou only saw’st the head

Of that unopen’d drop of snow

I placed beside thy bed.

In all the blooms that blow so fast,

Thou hast no further part,

Save those, the hour I saw thee last,

I laid above thy heart.

Two snowdrops for our boy and girl,

A primrose blown for me,

Wreathed with one often-play’d-with curl

From each bright head for thee.

And so I graced thee for thy grave,

And made these tokens fast

With that old silver heart I gave,

My first gift—and my last.

I dream’d, her babe upon her breast,

Here she might lie and calmly rest

Her happy eyes on that far hill

That backs the landscape fresh and still.

I hoped her thoughts would thrid the boughs

Where careless birds of love carouse,

And gaze those apple-blossoms through

To revel in the boundless blue.

But now her faculty of sight

Is elder sister to the light,

And travels free and unconfined

Through dense and rare, through form and mind.

Or else her life to be complete

Hath found new channels full and meet—

Then, O, what eyes are leaning o’er,

If fairer than they were before!