Looking down upon the white heads of my contemporaries Beneath what mound of snow Are hid my springtime roses? How shall Remembrance know Where buried Hope reposes? In what forgetful heart As in a cañon darkling, Slumbers the blissful art That set my heaven sparkling? What sense shall never know, Soul shall remember; Roses beneath the snow, June in November.
Return to the Julia Ward Howe library , or . . . Read the next poem; Limitations of Benevolence