A Dirge, She was as sweet as violets in the Spring

She was as sweet as violets in the Spring,
As fair as any rose in Summertime :
  But frail are roses in their prime
  And violets in their blossoming.
    Even so was she :
    And now she lies,
  The earth upon her fast-closed eyes,
  Dead in the darkness silently.

The sweet Spring violets never bud again,
The roses bloom and perish in a morn :
They see no second quickening lying lorn :
  Their beauty dies as though in vain.
    Must she die so
    For evermore,
  Cold as the sand upon the shore,
  As passionless for joy and woe?—

Nay she is worth much more than flowers that fade,
And yet shall be made fair with purple fruit :
  Branch of the Living Vine, whose Root
  From all eternity is laid.
    Another Sun
    Than this of ours
  Has withered up indeed her flowers
  But ripened her grapes every one.