Song. [Margaret Steele Anderson]
The bride, she wears a white, white rose — the plucking it was mine; The poet wears a laurel wreath — and I the laurel twine; And oh, the child, your little child, that’s clinging close to you, It laughs to wear my violets — they are so sweet and blue!
And I, I have a wreath to wear — ah, never rue nor thorn! I sometimes think that bitter wreath could be more sweetly worn! For mine is made of ghostly bloom, of what I can’t forget — The fallen leaves of other crowns — rose, laurel, violet!