Poetry Archives

I dug, beneath the cypress shade,
  What well might seem an elfin’s grave;
And every pledge in earth I laid,
  That erst thy false affection gave.

I press’d them down the sod beneath;
  I placed one mossy stone above;
And twined the rose’s fading wreath
  Around the sepulchre of love.

Frail as thy love, the flowers were dead
  Ere yet the evening sun was set:
But years shall see the cypress spread,
  Immutable as my regret.