| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | Birthday | | By D. H. Lawrence |
| | | 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. | |
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| So people passing under | 5 |
| 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 | 10 |
| 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 | 15 |
| 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. | 20 | | | |
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