Jessie B. Rittenhouse, ed. (1869–1948). The Second Book of Modern Verse. 1922.

Song

THE BRIDE, she wears a white, white rose—the plucking it was mine;

The poet wears a laurel wreath—and I the laurel twine;

And oh, the child, your little child, that’s clinging close to you,

It laughs to wear my violets—they are so sweet and blue!

And I, I have a wreath to wear—ah, never rue nor thorn!

I sometimes think that bitter wreath could be more sweetly worn!

For mine is made of ghostly bloom, of what I can’t forget—

The fallen leaves of other crowns—rose, laurel, violet!