Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
Passe RosaLouise Driscoll
M
Their hundred cycles o’er you,
And still we may adore you,
Reading the printed pages where your history is told.
The daughters of a strange new race
Ponder on your amazing grace,
And picture your white hands and sunny head.
Where is the sweet, white breast of you?
And where the golden crest of you?
And where the men who bled for you, fighting through right and wrong?
The violets that were your eyes
Are smiling to Aosta’s skies,
Eight hundred years ago you went that way.
With bitter tears you might not shed,
And now your griefs and you are dead.
And yet, through Time, the crucible, your perfume is distilled.