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 | 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
177
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 | |