Poems (Cary)/The Prophecy

For works with similar titles, see The Prophecy.

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THE PROPHECY.
We two were playmates,—Rosalie Had lived full three years more than I.One wild March day she said to me, "Sweet, would you grieve if I should die?"
The black cock clapped his wings and crew Loud, from the willow overhead:I laughed for the good sign—she drew Her gold hair through her hands and said,
The while the tears came, "We shall play Under these boughs no more!" Alas!I know now that she saw that day The daises in the churchyard grass.
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I tried to see the squirrel climb The silver beech-bole,—tried to seeThe bees, thick-flying,—all the time My eyes were fixed on Rosalie.
A week or more the March had worn Upon the April's flowery way,—And pale, and all her long locks shorn, On our low bed sweet Rosy lay.
Across her pillow in bright strands I saw them fall (and wept to see),The self-same way her little hands Had twined them 'neath the willow tree.
I had been with her all the night; Softly she slept the time away.In the wet woods before the light The little brown birds sang for day.
Over the locks that lay across The pillow where so well she slept,Long years has grown the churchyard moss,— One golden tangle only, kept.
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