So, they are dead! Love! when they passed <br />From thee to me, our fingers met; <br />O withered darlings of the May! <br />I feel those fairy fingers yet. <br /> <br />And for the bliss ye brought me then, <br />Your faded forms are precious things; <br />No flowers so fair, no buds so sweet <br />Shall bloom through all my future springs. <br /> <br />And so, pale ones! with hands as soft <br />As if I closed a baby's eyes, <br />I'll lay you in some favorite book <br />Made sacred by a poet's sighs. <br /> <br />Your lips shall press the sweetest song, <br />The sweetest, saddest song I know, <br />As ye had perished, in your pride, <br />Of some lone bard's melodious woe. <br /> <br />Oh, Love! hath love no holier shrine! <br />Oh, heart! could love but lend the power, <br />I'd lay thy crimson pages bare, <br />And every leaf should fold its flower.<br /><br />Henry Timrod<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-pressing-some-flowers/
