Thou wilt not turn upon thy bed;
Chaunteth not the brooding bee
Sweeter tones than calumny?
Let them rave.
Thou wilt never raise thine head
From the green that folds thy grave.
Let them rave.
4
Crocodiles wept tears for thee;
The woodbine and eglatere
Drip sweeter dews than traitor’s tear.
Let them rave.
Rain makes music in the tree
O’er the green that folds thy grave.
Let them rave.
5
Round thee blow, self-pleached[[3]] deep,
Bramble-roses, faint and pale,
And long purples[[4]] of the dale.
Let them rave.
These in every shower creep.
Thro’[[5]] the green that folds thy grave.
Let them rave.
6
The gold-eyed kingcups fine:
The frail bluebell peereth over
Rare broidry of the purple clover.
Let them rave.
Kings have no such couch as thine,
As the green that folds thy grave.
Let them rave.
7
Wild words wander here and there;
God’s great gift of speech abused
Makes thy memory confused:
But let them rave.
The balm-cricket[[6]] carols clear
In the green that folds thy grave.
Let them rave.
[1] Still used in the north of England for “birch”.