Page:The Poems of Oscar Wilde.pdf/256

 A linnet on the hawthorn spray

Sang of the glories of the spring,

And made the flow'ring copses ring

With gladness for the new-born day.

A lark from out the grass I trod

Flew wildly, and was lost to view

In the great seamless veil of blue

That hangs before the face of God.

The willow whispered overhead

That death is but a newer life,

And that with idle words of strife

We bring dishonour on the dead.

I took a branch from off the tree,

And hawthorn-blossoms drenched with dew,

I bound them with a sprig of yew,

And made a garland fair to see.

I laid the flowers where He lies,

(Warm leaves and flowers on the stone);

What joy I had to sit alone

Till evening broke on tired eyes:

Till all the shifting clouds had spun

A robe of gold for God to wear,

And into seas of purple air

Sank the bright galley of the sun. 242