The Grave

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Why so silent, sweet red rose?

Why do your petals fade?

Your leaves with ice are heavy weighed,

and lost in winter snows.

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Why so silent, sweet green vine?

Why do you cling so strong?

You know not where you will belong,

but through the thorns you twine.

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Why so silent, sweet black thorn?

Why is your touch so cruel?

You, shadowed by the rose's jewel,

must bear the maiden's scorn.

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Why so silent, sweet white maid?

And why are you still weeping?

Your tears fall for one ever sleeping,

who in his grave is laid.

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Why so silent, bitter snows?

Why must you be so cold?

You make a strange sight to behold,

blanketing grave and rose.