Passion Flowers (Watson)/Widowed
Widowed.
It is not she alone whose Idol sleeps
Beneath the green of kindly flowering sod
Is widowed. Ah! no, it is not she
Who may uplift her tearful eyes to God,
And say, with tender sobs, Thy will be done.
There walks, alas! in secret grief and woe
Another, doubly widowed, though no weeds
Reveal her soul. She may not moan nor go
To any mound where others weep; alone
She walks in silence on her separate way
From which he has elected to depart.
Her heart is broken—cold and ashen gray
The rose-hued Palace, where she dwelt at rise
Of life's glad sun, 'tis there she slowly dies.
Beneath the green of kindly flowering sod
Is widowed. Ah! no, it is not she
Who may uplift her tearful eyes to God,
And say, with tender sobs, Thy will be done.
There walks, alas! in secret grief and woe
Another, doubly widowed, though no weeds
Reveal her soul. She may not moan nor go
To any mound where others weep; alone
She walks in silence on her separate way
From which he has elected to depart.
Her heart is broken—cold and ashen gray
The rose-hued Palace, where she dwelt at rise
Of life's glad sun, 'tis there she slowly dies.