By Edgar Guest
Cover their graves with the blossoms of May,
Strew them with blooms from the garden of love;
Sing them a song of remembrance today,
Shine on their mounds, gentle sun, from above.
Tenderly bring them the beauties of Spring,
Roses of love, there to gracefully swing,
Strew them with pansies and lovingly twine
Garlands of worship from sweet eglantine.
For the years may be many, the years may be long,
But our heroes will live in our hearts and our song.
Over their graves gentle Spring now has laid
A carpet of velvety green from her loom;
Into garlands the flowers from her bosom are made
And lovingly placed at the gate of each tomb.
And tears of remembrance we shed as we stand
O’er the mounds of our loved ones, asleep in the land;
The flag that they fought for we place at their graves
And our hearts fill with pride as it flutters and waves.
Though the years have been dreary, their glory is bright,
Their valor still shines as a beacon of right.
Their comrades and widows and children once more
Unite at their graves on a mission of love;
But Time with his sickle still garners his store,
And many are called to the mansion above.
But their children’s children will cease from their play
In the days that will come, and with blossoms of May
They’ll hallow their graves as this morning we do,
With flowers just as bright and ‘neath skies just as blue.
Though the years may be many, the years may be long,
Our heroes will live in our hearts and our song.
By Ella Wheeler Wilcox
There is a haunting phantom called Regret,
A shadowy creature robed somewhat like woe,
But fairer in the face, whom all men know
By her said mien, and eyes forever wet.
No heart would seek her; but once having met
All take her by the hand, and to and fro
They wander through those paths of long ago–
Those hallowed ways ’twere wiser to forget.
One day she led me to that lost land’s gate
And bade me enter; but I answered “No!
I will pass on with my bold comrade Fate;
I have no tears to waste on thee–no time–
My strength I hoard for heights I hope to climb,
No friend art thou, for souls that would be great.”
In honor of BB King
A CALENDAR OF SONNETS: MAY
By Helen Hunt Jackson
O Month when they who love must love and wed!
Were one to go to worlds where May is naught,
And seek to tell the memories he had brought
From earth of thee, what were most fitly said?
I know not if the rosy showers shed
From apple-boughs, or if the soft green wrought
In fields, or if the robin’s call be fraught
The most with thy delight. Perhaps they read
Thee best who in the ancient time did say
Thou wert the sacred month unto the old:
No blossom blooms upon thy brightest day
So subtly sweet as memories which unfold
In aged hearts which in thy sunshine lie,
To sun themselves once more before they die.