An Easter Flower.

A poem by George W. Doneghy


The flower that she gave to me
Has withered now and died--
But yet with fond fidelity
Its faded leaves abide.


The petals that so fragrant then
She wore upon her breast--
Still clinging to the lifeless stem,
With miser care possessed.


As when in sweetest purity
It shed its perfume rare,
A symbol dear 'twill ever be
Of one divinely fair!


Plucked by the cruel hand of Death
In beauty's youthful bloom--
She perished with his chilling breath,
And withered in the tomb.


But I will cherish ever thus
The token that she gave
When sun-lit skies were over us,
Unclouded by the grave!

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