THE LAST BOUQUET
He gathered wild wood anemones,
Often they’d gathered them in the woodland grove,
And wove them in a garland for her hair;
(O, fair her hair, with gold of sunlit trees),
And mingled with them perfumed violet rare,
Purple perfumed violets; red and mauve
And dusky blue – all passionate colour there,
With cooling green; dew moist they were,
Those wild anemones found in their woodland grove.
He wove a garland for her hair;
She loved anemones and violets rare;
Red touched blue, and blue caressed the mauve,
Purple blended with the fragrant kiss
Of morning dew culled in a moment’s bliss;
And captured in the garland which he wove.
He kissed her hair, the gold of sunlit trees,
He kissed the unfeeling forehead of his love,
And left the wreath of wild anemones.
