At Her Grave

I have stayed too long from your grave, it seems,
Now I come back again.
Love, have you stirred down there in your dreams
Through the sunny days or the rain?
Ah no! the same peace; you are happy so;
And your flowers, how do they grow?

Your rose has a bud: is it meant for me?
Ah, little red gift put up
So silently, like a child's present, you see
Lying beside your cup!
And geranium leaves—I will take, if I may,
Two or three to carry away.

I went not far. In yon world of ours
Grow ugly weeds. With my heart,
Thinking of you and your garden of flowers
I went to do my part,
Plucking up where they poison the human wheat
The weeds of cant and deceit

'Tis a hideous thing I have seen, and the toil
Begets few thanks, much hate;
And the new crop only will find the soil
Less foul, for the old 'tis too late.
I come back to the only spot I know
Where a weed will never grow.