He looked—was that pale woman,
So grave, so worn, so sad.
The child once young and smiling,
The bride once fair and glad?
What grief had dimmed that glory
And brought that dark eclipse
Upon her blue eyes' radiance,
And paled those trembling lips?
What memory of past sorrow,
What stab of present pain
Brought that deep look of anguish,
That watched the dismal rain?
That watched (with the absent spirit
That looks, yet does not see)
The dead and leafless branches
Upon the Judas Tree?
The slow, dark months crept onward
Upon their icy way.
Till April broke in showers
And Spring smiles forth in May,
Upon the apple-blossoms
The sun shone bright again,
When slowly up the highway
Came a long funeral train.
The bells tolled slowly, sadly,
For a noble spirit fled:
Slowly, in pomp and honor,
They bore the quiet dead.
Upon a black-plumed charger
One rode, who held a shield.
Where azure fleurs-de-lis and stars
Shone on a silver field.
'Mid all that homage given
To a fluttering heart at rest.
Perhaps an honest sorrow
Dwelt only in one breast.
One by the inn-door standing
Watched with fast-dropping tears
The long procession passing,
And thought of bygone years.
The boyish, silent homage
To child and bride unknown,
The pitying, tender sorrow
Kept in his heart alone.
Now laid upon the coffin
With a purple flower, might be
Told to the cold (load sleeper;
The rest could only see
A fragrant purple blossom
Plucked from a Judas Tree.
