by Florence Wilkinson Evans
Come, brothers, let us lift
Her pitiful body on high,
Her tight-shut hands that take to heaven no gift
But ashes of costly things.
We seven archangels will
Bear her in silence on our flame-tipped wings.
From:
Anthology of the Worlds Best Poems Volume II (Memorial -- Selected by Edwin Markham)
Copyright ©:
1948 Wm. H. Wise & Co., Inc. New York
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