Over the plains where Persian hosts <br />Laid down their lives for glory <br />Flutter the cyclamens, like ghosts <br />That witness to their story. <br />Oh, fair! Oh, white! Oh, pure as snow! <br />On countless graves how sweet they grow! <br /> <br />Or crimson, like the cruel wounds <br />From which the life-blood, flowing, <br />Poured out where now on grassy mounds <br />The low, soft winds are blowing: <br />Oh, fair! Oh, red! Like blood of slain; <br />Not even time can cleanse that stain. <br /> <br />But when my dear these blossoms holds, <br />All loveliness her dower, <br />All woe and joy the past enfolds <br />In her find fullest flower. <br />Oh, fair! Oh, pure! Oh, white and red! <br />If she but live, what are the dead!<br /><br />Arlo Bates<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-cyclamen/
