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" brother, dearest friend, when I am dead, And you shall see no more this face of mine, Let nothing but red roses be the sign Of the white life I lost for him," she said; "No, do not curse him,—pity him instead; Forgive him!—forgive me! . . God's anodyne For human hate is pity; and the wine That makes men wise, forgiveness. I have read Love's message in love's murder, and I die." And so they laid her just where she would lie,— Under red roses. Red they bloomed and fell; But when flushed autumn and the snows went by, And spring came,—lo, from every bud’s green shell Burst a white blossom.—Can love reason why?