Last night he said the dead were dead
And scoffed my faith to scorn;
I found him at a tulip bed
When I passed by at morn.
‘O ho!’ said I, ‘the frost is near
And mist is on the hills,
And yet I find you planting here
Tulips and daffodils.’
”Tis time to plant them now,’ he said,
‘If they shall bloom in Spring’;
‘But every bulb,’ said I, ‘seems dead,
And such an ugly thing.’
‘The pulse of life I cannot feel,
The skin is dried and brown.
Now look!’ a bulb beneath my heel
I crushed and trampled down.
In anger then he said to me:
‘You’ve killed a lovely thing;
A scarlet blossom that would be
Some morning in the Spring.’
‘Last night a greater sin was thine,’
To him I slowly said;
‘You trampled on the dead of mine
And told me they are dead.
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