D. H. Lawrence — Birthday

        If I were well-to-do I would put roses on roses, and cover your grave With multitude of white roses, and just a few         Red ones, a bloody-white flag over you.         So people passing under The ash-trees of the valley road, should raise Their eyes to your bright place, and then in wonder         Should climb the hill, and put the flowers asunder.         And seeing it is your birthday, They would say, seeing each mouth of white rose praise You highly, every blood-red rose display         Your triumph of anguish above you, they would say:         "'Tis strange, we never knew While she was here and walking in our ways That she was as the wine-jar whence we drew         Our draught of faith that sent us on anew."         And so I'd raise A rose-bush unto you in all their hearts A rose of memory with a scent of praise         Wafting like solace down their length of days.