A Dirge (She was as sweet as violets in the Spring)

She was as sweet as violets in the Spring,
As fair as any rose in Summertime:
But frail are roses in their prime
And violets in their blossoming.

Even so was she:
And now she lies,
The earth upon her fast-closed eyes,
Dead in the darkness silently.

The sweet Spring violets never bud again,
The roses bloom and perish in a morn:
They see no second quickening lying lorn:
Their beauty dies as though in vain.

Must she die so
For evermore.
Cold as the sand upon the shore.
As passionless for joy and woe? --

Nay she is worth much more than flowers that fade,
And yet shall be made fair with purple fruit:
Branch of the Living Vine, whose Root
From all eternity is laid.

Another Sun
Than this of ours
Has withered up indeed her flowers
But ripened her grapes every one.