Classic Poem

Oh , sister! take this withered flower —
My parting gift to thee;
And sometimes when it meets thine eye,
Perhaps you'll think of me.

Nay, weave me not that dewy wreath
Of rose and lily fair,
But, sister, of the cypress twine
A garland for my hair.

I may not linger with thee long,
My sister, kind and dear;
Then fold me closer to thy heart, —
Thy soft voice let me hear.

Weep not for me when I am gone,
To the lone convent's cell;
I'll think of thee when tolls at eve,
The solemn vesper bell.

My spirit, like a wounded bird,
Would seek a peaceful nest
Within those dear secluded walls,
And hush its grief to rest.

Then, sister, take this withered flower —
My parting gift to thee —
And sometimes when it meets thine eye,
Perhaps you'll think of me.