The Return

"Look, dearest, this shall be my flower!" she said, "This starry jasmine." And she thrust a spray For me to smell. "Remember!" Ah, today I see her buoyant loveliness—her red Sweet lips. In one brief twelvemonth she was dead. Last night wind wailed. December's first snow lay Upon the ground. Too unresigned to pray, Too torn with racking grief to sleep, I fed My misery on remembrance. "Love," I cried, "Come back to me—come back! No heaven, no tomb Can keep you from me. Come—my own, my own!" And as I ceased the gloom was glorified— I was aware that I was not alone— A sudden scent of jasmine filled the room.