If I were well-to-do

I would put roses on roses, and cover your grave

With multitude of white roses, and just a few

Red ones, a bloody-white flag over you.

So people passing under

The ash-trees of the valley road, should raise

Their eyes to your bright place, and then in wonder

Should climb the hill, and put the flowers asunder.

And seeing it is your birthday,

They would say, seeing each mouth of white rose praise

You highly, every blood-red rose display

Your triumph of anguish above you, they would say:

“’Tis strange, we never knew

While she was here and walking in our ways

That she was as the wine-jar whence we drew

Our draught of faith that sent us on anew.”

And so I’d raise

A rose-bush unto you in all their hearts

A rose of memory with a scent of praise

Wafting like solace down their length of days.