The myrtle
E. MacDowell
Its clinging, mournful leaves, I said,
Seem made to thatch a grave;
Around the roots of cypress trees,
Too deep in gloom for sun or breeze,
It lives to mourn the dead!
But when I kissed her name, I saw,
Above the dear, dead maid,
A starry flower of tender blue,
A bit of heaven, shining through
The leaves upon her grave!