Poems (Odom)/A Withered Flower

A WITHERED FLOWER.

A little withered, waxen flower,
That tells its tale of woe,
'T was taken from your folded hands,
My darling, long ago.

Among the treasures of my past,
Enfolding bitter tears,
This little token mutely looks
Up from the grave of years.

In scentless silence now it gives
The dumb unspoken sign,
That even through the gates of death
Comes from your heart to mine.

And shrouded memories start to life
That long have buried lain,
Awaking in my heart anew
The throbbing pulse of pain.

Again I stand beside you, dear,
Your chilling hands I hold,
Again my kisses fall upon
Your brow so damp and cold.

Once more I feel the trembling clasp
Your fingers gave to mine,
And see the last, last beam of love,
Beneath your lashes shine.

These faded leaflets bring again
Your dead face back to me,
The darkened room, the quiet hands,
The pale, still form I see.

That first great shock of agony
Seems folded in this flower,
And all the bitter grief of time
Condensed in that one hour.

I lift the leaves with tender touch,
And hot tears falling fast,
The faint, sweet perfume seems to breathe
A soft sigh from the past.

This crumbling beauty holds for me
The thrilling, painful power
Of love, and death, and loneliness,
Strong in this faded flower.