She wore a wreath of roses
The night that first we met;
Her lovely face was smiling
Beneath her curls of jet.
Her footstep had the lightness,
Her voice the joyous tone,—
The tokens of a youthful heart,
Where sorrow is unknown.
I saw her but a moment,
Yet methinks I see her now,
With the wreath of summer flowers
Upon her snowy brow.
A wreath of orange-blossoms,
When next we met, she wore;
The expression of her features
Was more thoughtful than before;
And standing by her side was one
Who strove, and not in vain,
To soothe her, leaving that dear home
She ne’er might view again.
I saw her but a moment,
Yet methinks I see her now,
With the wreath of orange-blossoms
Upon her snowy brow.
And once again I see that brow;
No bridal-wreath is there,
The widow’s sombre cap conceals
Her once luxuriant hair.
She weeps in silent solitude,
And there is no one near
To press her hand within his own,
And wipe away the tear.
I see her broken-hearted;
Yet methinks I see her now,
In the pride of youth and beauty,
With a garland on her brow.