Page:Poems Dorr.djvu/89

I took the flower he loved the best,
 The arbutus,—fairest child of May,—
And with its perfume half oppressed,
   Twined many a lovely spray

About his picture on the wall;
 His eyes were on me all the while,
And when I had arranged them all
   I thought he seemed to smile.

O Christ, be pitiful! That hour
 Saw him fall bleeding on the sod;
And while I toyed with leaf and flower
   His soul went up to God!

For him one pang—and then a crown;
 For him the laurels heroes wear;
For him a name whose long renown
   Ages shall onward bear.

For me the cross without the crown;
 For me the drear and lonely life;
O God! My sun, not his, went down
   On that red field of strife.