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Superstites Rosae
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Superstites Rosae

The grass is green upon her grave,
   The west wind whispers low;
"The corn is changed, come forth, come forth,
   Ere all the blossoms go!"

In vain. Her laughing eyes are sealed,
   And cold her sunny brow;
Last year she smiled upon the flowers --
   They smile above her now!

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Comments (1)

I love the old feel of your beautiful poem