  Sweet, on the daisies of your English grave I lay this little wreath of Indian flowers, Fragrant for me because the scent they have Breathes of the memory of our wedded hours; For others scentless; and for you, in heaven, Too pale and faded, dear dead wife! to wear, Save that they mean—what makes all fault forgiven— That he who brings them lays his heart, too, there. April 9, 1865. |
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