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! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BURIAL OF BOSTON CORBETT (ONE WARDEN TO ANOTHER) by EDGAR LEE MASTERS MOTHER EARTH by GEORGE SANTAYANA PRESIDENT GARFIELD by GEORGE SANTAYANA THE FORGOTTEN GRAVE by EMILY DICKINSON THE LAIRD O' COCKPEN by CAROLINA OLIPHANT NAIRNE TO THE MOON (1) by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY |