HEATHER

Violet and Rose in their graves lie,
as 'pon the heath I tearful sigh.
The north wind harps a solemn strain 
to the dull weeping of the rain.

Whither go your ashen spirits
after skies your scents inherit?
Do you count melancholy days,
ere Autumn sets the yews ablaze?

Do your hues flood yon barren swathe,
in Spring to tinge her blossoms rathe?
Or swirl 'mid greening, preening pines,
ere they haunt the goddess' shrines?

Do you pause by autumn fires,
glide o'er airy, fragrant spires...
or dance as a gay rainbow wight
thro' palls of smoky golden light?

Do you drift o'er browning meadows
into Winter's darkling shadows,
for 'pon her death-white form to rest
as Earth she coddles in her nest?

Songbirds to fairer climes have flown;
the raven calls from elms forlorn.
My blooms the frost shall ochre stain;
yet Spring shall in my heart remain.

© 2015 Lily's Verse

Lilium Candidum

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