 | The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder |  |
WITH A CROSS OF IMMORTELLES
When Christ cried: “It is done!”The face of a small red flower,
Looking up to the suffering One,
Turned pale with love and pain,
And never shone red again.
In memory of that hour
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And the darker secret of sorrow
That shall come to each, to-morrow;
Sweet friend, I send you this.
| The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder | |