In Praise of Emily

Not a flower left
In gardens once profuse
With colors bright and gay.

She watched as one by one
Their gallant petals wept
While butterflies bereft
Furled their eager wings
In impotent dismay.

She “could not stop for Death”
This mistress of the heart
But sleeps in transmutation –
A martyr to her art.

And yet the Skylark sings.
In her beloved citadel
The Empress reigns supreme!

She sighs and smiles at last
At immortality
Adorned in Royal Purple
For all eternity.