Over the plains where Persian hosts
  Laid down their lives for glory
Flutter the cyclamens, like ghosts
  That witness to their story.
Oh, fair! Oh, white! Oh, pure as snow!
On countless graves how sweet they grow!

Or crimson, like the cruel wounds
  From which the life-blood, flowing,
Poured out where now on grassy mounds
  The low, soft winds are blowing:
Oh, fair! Oh, red! Like blood of slain;
Not even time can cleanse that stain.
 
But when my dear these blossoms holds,
  All loveliness her dower,
All woe and joy the past enfolds
  In her find fullest flower.
Oh, fair! Oh, pure! Oh, white and red!
If she but live, what are the dead!