Passion Flowers (Watson)/Widowed

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Widowed.
It is not she alone whose Idol sleeps Beneath the green of kindly flowering sodIs widowed. Ah! no, it is not she Who may uplift her tearful eyes to God,And say, with tender sobs, Thy will be done. There walks, alas! in secret grief and woeAnother, doubly widowed, though no weeds Reveal her soul. She may not moan nor goTo any mound where others weep; alone She walks in silence on her separate wayFrom which he has elected to depart. Her heart is broken—cold and ashen grayThe rose-hued Palace, where she dwelt at riseOf life's glad sun, 'tis there she slowly dies.
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